


Jeeves and the Club for Inverts

by triedunture



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Gay Bar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie goes to a rather rummy sort of club, the last place one would expect to find one's brilliant valet. What follows is more rummy stuff, lots of drinking, much too much smoking, and some other unmentionable things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [jeeves](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/jeeves)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts (Part 1)** _

Title: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts  
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster  
Rating: R for some fruity scenes  
Warnings: angst, uh, the seedy sort of underbelly of gay culture? Is that a warning thing?  
Length: a little over 23,000 words  
Summary: Bertie goes to a rather rummy sort of club, the last place one would expect to find one's brilliant valet. What follows is more rummy stuff, lots of drinking, much too much smoking, and some other unmentionable things.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

For those that might like to listen along to the songs that make an appearance in the story, you can open these into tabs and perhaps hit play when you feel like it. Don't worry, it will be very obvious when a song shows up:

[Tea for Two](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvBD5qZGt2Y)   
[Always](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLh-m1Z_feY)

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

 

It all began rather innocently, I'd like to say. That is, I would _like_ to say, but I won't as it would be an out-and-out lie, and quite frankly I think you lot deserve a sight better. I mean, here you are, sitting down to another one of my tales, probably already lulled into your ritual of pursuing the Wooster chronicles with a pipe and a cup of strong tea. You might expect another little ditty about my cousin Angela's trials and tribulations with her betrothed, or my fellow Drones and their pursuit of a toothsome female.

This story is a bit different; it doesn't turn on one aunt or another making a ridiculous decree, and it doesn't end with Jeeves tossing one of my beloved, yet to his mind unsuitable, articles of clothing in the rubbish bin. It's a wholly new kind of tale for me, and it begins not innocently at all, in just this fashion.

Cyril Bassington-Bassington, whom you might remember as the creature that was so taken with the Broadway stage that he had forsworn a position as a diplomat, visited me one day in the Berkeley flat. Cyril is a rummy sort, but a friend of mine, so I hailed him warmly, if not a little warily. As Jeeves saw to his hat and stick, I asked the old bean, 'What brings you here, Cyril? Are you no longer performing in New York?'

'No, Bertie,' he sighed, taking a chair and one of my cigarettes, 'the tour has drawn to a close. I'm sure I could have easily gotten a role in the director's next venture, but truth be told, I had tired of that buffoon and his so-called artistic vision.'

'Oh?' I said with all due politeness. (So needed because Cyril wasn't actually any good on stage, from what I'd seen.)

Cyril hummed and waved his newly lit gasper between two fingers. 'I've decided it's time for me to try my luck in the West End.'

'Oh.' I pursed my lips in what I hoped was reasonable interest. 'Rather.'

'But that's not why I've come to you, Bertie. I—' And then Cyril shot a completely fish-eyed glance at Jeeves, who was standing silently and helpfully off stage right as was his wont. The Bassington Squared cleared his throat meaningfully. 'Jeeves, do you think I might have a glass of water? Thanks awfully.'

And with a low 'Indeed, Mr Bassington-Bassington,' Jeeves trickled from the room like a fresh spring.

Cyril leaned forward and whispered to me in a hurried way. 'Bertie, I've come to ask a favour of you. It's a rather delicate matter. That's why I asked Jeeves for water, you see. I'm not actually thirsty, but it would get him—'

'Yes, yes.' I rolled a hand through the air. 'I am in the know. Pray continue, Cyril.'

His fingers twitched nervously round his cigarette. 'I wondered if you might accompany me to a club.'

This seemed a strange sort of secret favour, for it is known far and wide that Bertram W. Wooster is always willing to sally forth for an evening's revelry at any club in good standing. I like nothing better than lifting a beaker with a crowd of the best, though we were always welcome to do so at the Drones, and I reminded Cyril of such. But the blighter just shook his head.

'No, it's not that simple, Bertie. You see, it's a different sort of club.'

'So you say, I suppose.'

'Bertie, it's—' Cyril looked round the room again, but Jeeves was still in the middle of his famous disappearing act. 'It's a club for a certain type of gentleman.'

I nodded along. 'All from the theatre, then?'

'Not exactly. Bertie, I'm going to be very blunt with you because, erm, you're probably the best egg I know. To tell, I mean.'

'Why, thank you very much.'

'I don't think what I'm about to say will upset you unduly.'

'I should hope not.'

'Bertie, this club is for gentlemen who don't enjoy the company of ladies,' Cyril finally managed to squeak out.

I looked at him as if he'd gone mad. 'Cyril, surely no sane man finds pleasure in the presence of aunts and cousins, what?'

Cyril covered his face with his hands and made a noise like a carriage wheel in need of oil. When he was done, he hissed at me: 'In bed, you half-wit! Men who don't enjoy the company of ladies _in bed_.'

'Oh. I say.'

'Exactly.'

'Well, how was I supposed to know what you were on about?' I admit I was slightly pipped at this attitude he had, that all and sundry should immediately understand what he meant by such vague statements.

'Look, it doesn't matter,' he sighed. 'I'd like to go to this place, and I don't want to go alone.' He fidgeted with his cuff-link. 'That is, if you're not busy.'

I've had a lot of accusations flung at me in my time, but no one has ever said that I have a heart of ice. Looking at young Cyril sitting there, entrusting me with his secret, I defrosted instantly. Cyril might be an annoying chap at times, and he can't deliver a line to save his life, but he deserved a spot of fun as much as the next bird.

'Certainly I'll accompany you to this club,' I said. 'Music and frivolity are always up my alley. I'm sure it will be a lark.'

'You don't mind, then? About the nature of this club?' Cyril simpered. 'And its members?'

I waved it away. 'Tosh. Sounds like it will be a fine time.' To tell the truth, I was rather curious; it sounded like these chappies fell along much the same lines as the youngest of the Woosters when it came to the tender arts. I mean to say, I've dabbled in many sorts of things and a gentleman never tells. But, well, I did attend Oxford, you know.

So Cyril and I agreed that we would step into this club Saturday evening. Just as our discussion was finished on that subject, Jeeves returned with what must have been the most well-tended glass of water in history.

Jeeves has an uncanny ability to be exactly where he should be at any given moment. If he were any other man, I would be worried he was listening at keyholes and what-not. But with Jeeves, I just assume he knows when to return to a room via some mental capability that normal humans do not possess. Listening at keyholes? Beneath him.

When Saturday evening rolled round, I had Jeeves dress me in my favourite black tie ensemble; I didn't want to go overboard with white tie since Cyril had only said that evening dress was expected, and when in doubt, I err towards the informal. Jeeves wouldn't have approved, had I been able to tell him my plans for the night. But with things as they were, I merely told him Cyril and I had theatre tickets and left it at that.

Cyril swung by the flat to guide us to the spot he had in mind. As we walked, silver-topped sticks swinging, he explained to me some of the more peculiar rules of this club of his.

'It's in Coventry Street; they call it The Black Cloak,' Cyril said to me, speaking very quickly out of the corner of his mouth, though no one was on the pavement to overhear. 'I'm told that every man who enters is given a mask to wear all evening.'

'A mask? Whatever for?'

'For anonymity, Bertie. For heaven's sakes, there might be blackmailers, or plain-clothes police, or just downright loonies lurking about. I wouldn't want those sorts to recognise me, would you?'

'I suppose not. But how do you know who the devil you're speaking to?'

Cyril rolled his eyes skyward. 'It doesn't _matter_. Everyone gives false names.' At the sight of my incredulous face, he elaborated. 'Think of it this way: when everyone's nameless, you have the chance to meet anyone. Gentlemen like us from wealthy families rubbing elbows with merchants, artists, or dash it, even servants. Anyone can enter as long as they're dressed the part. Isn't it brilliant? Better than roaming Piccadilly, surely.'

I had my doubts as to its brilliance. 'Cyril, I'm all for rubbing elbows. Chaps will tell you no one rubs elbows like a Wooster. But I don't know if I like the sound of all this secrecy. You know I'm no good at pretending.'

'It'll be great fun. You'll see. Ah, here it is.'

Cyril pulled on my arm, leading me up the stone steps and through a doorway that carried neither a sign nor banner declaring its club-like nature. From the street, it looked like any ordinary building. A professional office, perhaps.

The two of us entered a foyer that was staffed by a single aged attendant who took our overcoats, hats, and sticks with nary a murmur. When he had completed that task at his doddering speed, he took up a defensive position behind a desk and opened what looked to be a registry book.

'Names?' he intoned as he reached for his pen.

'Mr Sebastian Croft,' Cyril said with great cheer. I glared at him; I hadn't had time to think of a good _nomme de plume_ for myself, and here was Cyril, crafting the perfect one! I mean to say!

'And you, sir?' the attendant asked me while I gaped at my friend.

Cyril provided my answer for me. 'This is Mr Nicholas Benton,' he said, gesturing to me grandly.

As the old man scribbled that down, I whispered to Cyril, 'I don't even _look_ like a Nicholas.'

'Nonsense. It suits you.' Cyril adjusted his tie in an age-speckled mirror that hung on the wallpapered wall.

After we paid a modest entry fee and were read a tome full of rules (most of which hammered home the importance of anonymity), the attendant reached into a small cardboard box that sat on his desk and procured what looked like two black whatsits moulded into a butterfly-with-holes shape. He handed them over, and Cyril and I both took one. Upon closer examination, I could see that they were little masks much like the things one wears round one's eyes during the carnival season in Italy.

'Is this the mask?' I asked. 'I thought when you said "mask" you meant a proper mask, one that covered the whole face!'

'Well, if the mask covered the whole face, how would you know if a fellow was a looker or not?' Cyril said as he pressed his little domino number to his eyes and slipped its invisible string of filament round his head to hold it in place.

'Yes, but how does this,' I held up the tiny bit of cover, 'preserve your identity in any real way?' I slipped it on to show him.

'I don't recognise you. Now come along, _Nicholas_.' My companion grinned in quite an empty-headed manner. 'It's time to join the party.'

'Right this way, sirs,' the old attendant said, and ushered us down a narrow hall and to a heavy wooden door which, when opened to admit us, revealed a main hall filled with such a number of masked men laughing, smoking, drinking, singing, dancing, and generally carousing that my eyes nearly bulged clean out of my domino mask. It was like that ship in a bottle gag; one couldn't quite work out how so much had been crammed inside so small a thing. But there was the proof: perhaps a hundred or more men in the grand ballroom that sported several chaises, armchairs, and sofas arranged in a haphazard fashion.

The ceilings were high, and the crown mouldings and beadboard that lined the walls gave the place a stately feel. A chandelier the size of a double-decker bus hung in the center, freely dripping crystals. A bit over-the-top, perhaps; even more so than the Drones' club, which was the very picture of overwrought architecture. Off the main hall, there appeared to be three or four hallways that were sectioned off with heavy red velvet curtains. Patrons were busily flitting in and out of the gaps in said curtains, like ants travelling about inside an anthill. And my word, there were certainly a lot of men in attendance.

At first blush, the patronage of The Black Cloak didn't seem much different from any other men's club I'd visited: lots of coves laughing, smoking, swilling, and smirking. Run-of-the-mill activity, I mean to say. But upon closer inspection, one noticed two men arm-in-arm, or a man pressing a kiss to another man's neck, or a couple in a far corner standing much too close together as they spoke.

My eyes flickered from one man to the next. Short, tall, fat, thin, young, old, devastatingly good-looking, terribly normal: there seemed to be a specimen of each combination. I had had no inkling whatsoever until that moment that men of my sort, that is to say, Nature's Bachelors, came in such a range of flavours.

The size of the crowd and the tremendous noise made me a bit nervous, I admit, though I'm normally right at home at a large shindig. This was different because I didn't know a soul save Cyril, and even if I did recognise someone, I couldn't very well shout 'What-ho, Biffy!' or what have you. The masks and all prohibited that.

Cyril, however, took to the room like a duck to a ready amount of the clear liquid. Without pausing for breath, he flung himself into the gale, sauntering up to an older looking gentleman with a lovely head of silver hair. (I had always suspected Cyril had a pash for the elder of the male sect.) The two of them struck up a conversation about cummerbunds and I was left vacillating near the doorway.

I fear I looked like a morsel waiting to be snapped up by some enterprising chap, and such a chap did slither his way up to me, resplendent in his own small domino mask. I didn't know the man, but his bearing made me wonder if we'd been at Oxford together.

'You look a little lost, poor boy,' he said. 'I'm Peter. Could I offer you a hand in getting settled?'

He offered his hand quite literally, so I shook it and said. 'Call me Nicholas.' I scanned the room for something to chat about, and as luck would have it, my peepers landed on a sturdy baby grand sitting in the corner, covered in empty drinks glasses. 'Oh, is that piano in tune?' I asked a bit rapidly. 'I'd love to play something, if that sort of thing is permissible.'

'Is it permissible, he asks!' Peter (though his real name was probably Winston or something) tipped his noble head back and laughed. 'Nicholas, everything is permissible here. Playing a song for us is the least impermissible thing you might do.'

He leered somewhat, and I made up my mind to beat a hasty retreat from the blighter. It's not that he wasn't handsome; he was. And it's not that he wasn't friendly; he was overly so. But this Peter cove seemed rather determined and—what's the word? Single-minded. I could sense when he looked at the Wooster person that he was envisioning that person sans black tie and all underthings. Now, normally that would be just fine. Cyril, for example, didn't seem to have any problems with that sort of treatment from his silver-haired gentleman, who was doing much the same to him at that moment.

But for me there was a slight hitch. As curious as I was about this club, and as much as I wanted to help old Cyril in his quest for companionship, I wasn't exactly keen to dive into the pool of suitors myself. I felt a little leash inside me holding me back, if you get my meaning. There was something that stopped me from giving Peter the glad eye, as he was giving it to me.

So I legged it.

'I'll just try it, shall I?' I said over my shoulder to the blister as I weaved in and out of the tangles of men and furniture. Everyone else seemed to have a cocktail in hand, and I saw a bar somewhere off in the distance, but I felt I should sit at the piano bench and camp there for awhile before getting a brandy. I took my place, cracked my fingers, lifted the lid, and had a go at it.

I started simply enough with a quiet little ditty I'd learned at the Drones that week; I believe it was called Tea for Two, and it was in a corking show that had just opened. I improvised just a bit, as I sometimes do, and it wasn't long before I had a small crowd of smiling birds round the baby grand, humming along and waving their heads to the beat. One elder cove with a large white mustache clapped me on the shoulder just as I came to the end of my song and said, 'I'm Horton. What's your name, then, son?'

'Nicholas, I'm told.'

He laughed. 'You would do well to meet Victor. He's our other piano enthusiast. You two could make a passable duet, I think. Where's he gone? Victor! Oh, here he comes.' Horton waved at a figure as it floated through the gloomy shadow of a curtain, one of many that hid what must have been the entrances to various halls. This Victor was tall, dark, and, at the moment, turned the other way as if saying something to the man behind him. My friend at the piano shouted louder over the din. 'Victor! Come here. I've found you a fellow pianist.'

Victor turned, a cigar in one hand and a scotch glass in the other. And he promptly stopped short, his amused almost-smile falling from his lips. Someone who knew him might have been able to discern his shock from the slight widening of his eyes, wreathed in their small black mask.

And I certainly knew he was shocked. Because I recognised him as my valet, Jeeves.

As for me, my mouth must have been flapping open rather awfully; I'm not as good at hiding life's little jolts, you know. And this was the last place I'd ever expected to find my man Jeeves. Valets, as a race, are a quiet breed, given to introspection and deep thought. That is to say, I hadn't ever considered that any valet, let alone Jeeves, was ever bothered by the baser instincts to take a woman to bed, let alone another man.

But I couldn't say anything about it, could I? If I had shouted, 'Ho! my valet!' then I would have ruined not only the friendly atmosphere of the club, where everyone seemed about equal, but I would have embarrassed Jeeves terribly. Looking at him, decked out in tails and black tie, I could see that he was here not as a member of the servant class, but as a creature of high society, one that was often called upon to play the piano and what-not.

I think I recovered very admirably. I shut my trap and stood on shaky pins, thrusting a hand forward in greeting.

'Nicholas Benton,' I said, feeling my neck heat and prickle with a flush. 'At your service. And you are?'

'Victor,' Jeeves intoned, and if I had had any doubt as to identity, that smooth, low rumble of a voice dashed it to bits. 'Victor Larson.' He set his drink down to shake my hand.

'Oh, Victor, you must play with Nicholas here. He was performing a delightful Tea for Two,' my new friend Horton said.

'Yes, do you know it?' I babbled, trying to keep my tone light and friendly. I could feel Jeeves eyeing me with suspicion, as if he couldn't decide whether I was protecting his secret purposefully or if I really was so daft as to be tricked by a little eye mask.

'I could play the bass line, if you like,' Jeeves returned slowly, and we arranged ourselves side by side on the piano bench under the watchful eyes of about a thousand of London's biggest Wilde fans. I tried to pinpoint Cyril in the midst of it all, hoping he wouldn't blurt out Jeeves' identity like the loon he was, but he was nowhere to be found.

Jeeves touched off a chord, and I had to get my sweaty palms arranged on the keys with all due speed. I took off with the melody, and he accompanied me rather well. While the loud noise of the song rose all round us, I whispered under my breath, 'I had no idea you could play.'

Perhaps he didn't hear me, because Jeeves gave no answer. We romped through the jolly tune and even fiddled with a phrase here or there, one of us going off course and waiting for the other to follow, only to have the tables turn and we'd improvise the opposite way. The men in the audience soon joined in with the lyrics, belting out the chorus with such vim that, had I been wearing my top hat, I bet it would've been blown clean off.

'Picture me!' they shouted. 'Upon your knee! Tea for two, and two for tea!'

I must say, the level of singing prowess at the Cloak beat the living stuffing out of that of the Drones. Jeeves and I ended the song to massive applause, and we both took our small bows before getting up and leaving the piano to those who were now clamouring to show off their stuff. A new song swelled up, following us as we wended our way through the room. From the corner of his mouth, Jeeves said to me, 'The bar. Shall we?'

I couldn't have said it better myself. Once we were both fixed up with drinks (Jeeves with a fresh one and I with my first), I was a little less nervous about chatting with my valet in an inverts' club. Once I'd gulped down a swallow or two, the thought came to me that neither of us could be very sore about it. That is, I couldn't very well say, 'Jeeves! In an inverts' club! The shame, the nerve!' because I was there too, wasn't I? And the same held true for me. I had no reason to worry about Jeeves looking me up and down and saying, 'I am so very disappointed in the decisions you've made in regards to your more intimate company, sir.' He had made exactly the same move, after all.

While I was sipping at a thoughtful glass, I noticed Jeeves relighting his cigar. I'd never known him to smoke cigars, only gaspers, and I'm afraid I stared just a little.

He noticed and gestured with the thing, an airy sort of movement. 'Havanas,' he said. 'I try not to overindulge in them, but they do make for a nice treat.' He seemed completely relaxed and at ease, though if one looked harder, one noticed a bit of tension round the ocular region, nearly hidden by the domino mask. It was a look I had seen painted on Jeeves' face several times; it was the 'waiting for the other shoe to tumble to the floor with rather a loud bang' look (often employed during my Aunt Agatha's pauses between sentences).

I sought to reassure him.

'You know, Victor,' I said, 'you're so unlike anyone I've ever met. I mean, you play a fine bass line, _and_ you seem to know the correct barman to flag down for a strong b. and s., _and_ you manage to handle Havanas like a film star.' I propped my chin in my hand, which in turned was being held by my elbow propped up on the bar, and shot him an innocent look. 'It is so refreshing, meeting new people.'

I hoped the Wooster baby blues communicated it all via silent ocular telegraph: 'Don't worry; I won't mention it if you won't.'

The stuffed frog face melted somewhat. 'Yes, I agree, it is quite refreshing.'

I hadn't noticed until that moment just how naked Jeeves' voice sounded without the 'sir' tacked on to everything he said. I considered that I was going mad, and that maybe this Victor really wasn't Jeeves at all. But no. That little mask and a few dropped appellations couldn't fool me. This man before me was Jeeves, right down to the small freckle on the left side of his throat and the tiny scar on the underside of his chin, which I could see when he tipped back his glass.

I swirled my drink round and watched Jeeves take another draw from his cigar. 'So are you regularly in attendance at these soirees, Victor?' I asked. 'This is my first visit, you know. Had to escort an old pal of mine.'

Jeeves tapped the loose ash from his Havana into a crystal ash tray at his elbow before answering. 'I have been a patron of the Cloak for several years. It provides a soothing respite when one wishes only for mild entertainment and not deeper intellectual pursuits.'

I caught his meaning. This was his home away from home when the Junior Ganymede made him restless. No small wonder, really. The Ganymede, I've been told, is the place to find a slew of the best valets, butlers, and assorted manservants in Britain, but it must be dashed difficult to find a young fellow of our shared disposition there. Butlers, as far as I know, run along a median age of about eighty-nine and aren't much given to musical theatre sing-a-longs.

I looked round the crowded room once more. It appeared to be teeming with even more men dressed to the nines than earlier. Everyone seemed to be getting along famously, as if everyone knew each other very well. The two coves standing next to me at the bar, for instance, were becoming incredibly acquainted with each other's tongues. I fear I was a little startled at seeing that sort of thing going on mere inches from the Wooster nose; I might have even jumped a bit.

Jeeves made a noise at my surprised leap into the air. I won't call the noise a chuckle, because Jeeves does not chuckle, even when he's playing at being someone other than Jeeves. I would call it, perhaps, a low rumble of mirth.

I turned to him to try and explain that I wasn't some sort of neophyte (if that word means what I think it does) at this cove kissing thing, that it had only shocked me to see it so up close and in such crowded surroundings. But before I could squeak out my explanation, Jeeves reached past me and tapped the nearest chap on the shoulder.

'Christopher,' he said, 'perhaps it would be best if you showed your friend to an alcove.' He said this just as he might make a gentle suggestion concerning my choice of tie.

Christopher came up for air long enough to grin at us and shrug. 'Absolutely, Victor. Sorry I got so carried away, what?' And he led his companion by the hand through the crowd, where they disappeared from sight.

'An alcove?' I asked as I watched them go.

Jeeves examined the glowing tip of his cigar. 'The club provides them for patrons who wish to have a quiet place away from the main hall.' He flicked his eyes to me, and I was about to inquire further when a loud shout came from the other end of the bar. Jeeves and I both craned our necks to see two older gentlemen embroiled in quite the shouting match. It wasn't totally clear, but I believe the argument stemmed from something that had been done or said by one of them around the year 1892.

'Excuse me for a moment,' Jeeves said, resting his Havana in the ash tray. 'I must go see what's the matter.' And he floated toward the fight with all the grace of a benevolent peacekeeper.

The barman came to refill my glass, and he made the requisite chit chat that one makes when one's customer is standing alone. 'You're a friend of Victor's, then?' he asked. 'I've never seen you in here before.'

'Oh, just met him. Quite a chap.' I watched as Jeeves bent to whisper something in one shouter's ear; whatever he said had immediately calmed the fellow. 'Is he the unofficial enforcer here or something?' I asked the barman.

He laughed. 'That's one way to put it. We've all come to Victor at one time or another for advice or help. Trouble with a lover, trouble with the law, anything really, Victor always knows exactly what to do. Why, he was the one who helped me get this job.'

I could see why Jeeves would have done such a thing. The barman was a friendly sort, but a bit on the, how can I put this, obvious side. It would have been curtains for him if he'd worked at a bank or something. Every word he spoke screamed 'invert'.

'So Victor's very popular?' I hadn't seen anyone clinging to Jeeves that evening, but the night was young. Maybe his paramour just hadn't made an appearance yet. I don't know why it was suddenly important that I know, but it was.

The barman frowned. 'He's well-liked, if that's what you mean. But between you and me, darling, Victor's not going home with you, so don't hurt yourself trying.'

Well, I mean to say, what can a man do but bristle at that? 'I don't intend to go home with anyone!' I said. 'And what's wrong with me, anyway?'

He chuckled again, probably at the face I'd pulled, and said, 'Nothing against you. You seem an absolute lamb. But Victor hasn't had anybody on his arm for a very, very long time.' We both watched Jeeves brokering a handshake between the two men who had been fighting.

'How long?' I asked.

'Oh, I'd say two, maybe three years,' he said while wiping a glass clean. 'Before then, he prowled with the best of them. But maybe he grew tired of it. I don't know.'

At that moment, Jeeves trickled back to my side. 'The gentlemen were quarreling over a young man named, I believe, Sebastian,' he informed me.

'Oh, blast!' I set my drink back on the zinc bar-top. 'That bally Cyr— I mean, Sebastian! He's my old friend, you see, from school. If he's making an ass of himself—'

'I gathered that he has imbibed much more than is prudent, and is currently dancing on a table in the main hall.'

I tossed a few notes beside my drink and grumbled, 'I'd better go collect him and get a taxi. It wouldn't do for him to get us kicked out, what?'

Jeeves placed his hand, which was warm and large, lightly on my wrist. 'I take that to mean you wish to return at some future point, Nicholas?'

'Well.' I looked up at that magnificently noble face, replete with chiseled features and dark blue eyes, hidden only by the black domino mask. 'It has been great fun, I must say. Perhaps I will see you here again?'

'Perhaps, yes.' The weight of his hand left my wrist, after which I said toodle pip, found Cyril and his wayward tie, and rushed him out of the club and into the foyer, where the attendant took back our masks. I shoved Cyril in a taxi and rode with him to his flat, where I made sure he got inside safely before directing the driver to Berkeley Square.

 

[Continue on to Part Two.](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/500607.html#cutid1)


	2. triedunture: Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts (Part 2)

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [jeeves](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/jeeves)  
  
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_ **Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts (Part 2)** _   


When I entered the flat, I expected complete peace and quiet in which to mull over this rummy turn of events re: Jeeves and the club for inverts. Firstly, Jeeves was an invert, which was shocking on its own merit. I mean to say, he's the best valet a man could dream of, and I'd never thought of him as anything besides that. Valets and romantic lives were like cats and water in my mind. They just didn't go together, no matter how fit and tanned said valet might look after a holiday at the seaside. But there it was; Jeeves was human, just like everybody else. It would take some getting used to, but facts were facts.

But why would a cove like Jeeves suddenly cease to pursue romantic relations after being quite the Romeo? This was a question which called for a good long stretch of solitary thinking.

But Jeeves must have taken a jet-powered racer back to the flat, because he was already there, dressed in his uniform, and relieving me of my hat and stick before I could say 'What?'

'Good evening, sir,' Jeeves said as he went through his usual motions that my arrival always calls for. 'May I note that you've arrived home early? Was the theatre programme not to your or Mr Bassington-Bassington's liking?' He looked at me with a blank expression of complete innocence.

I goggled at him. So this is how it was going to be, I thought. Jeeves won't say a word about The Black Cloak and expects me to forget the whole thing as well.

Fine, then. I composed myself. 'Yes, we both decided to sneak out early. Cyril was feeling a bit green. Must have been something he ate.' I slipped out of my overcoat and let Jeeves have it. 'And you, Jeeves? Wasn't tonight your evening off?'

'Yes, sir. I passed an enjoyable few hours with an improving book.' And with not a twitch of his face, he hung up my coat and fluttered toward the kitchen. 'Would you like a cocktail before you retire, sir?'

'No thank you, Jeeves,' I said as I watched him go. I must have stood dumbly in the entryway for some minutes before I rallied myself and headed to bed.

I went to sleep thinking that perhaps this strange evening had been just a dream.

But of course I was wrong.

Cyril came round the next afternoon, all aglow. We had a seat in the parlour and, when Jeeves beetled off to get the tea things, Cyril let loose. 'Bertie,' he said, 'last night was absolutely corking. Best time I've ever had in my life!'

'Really?' I asked. 'It's a miracle you can remember any of it, given how completely smashed you were by the end.'

He continued gushing as if I hadn't spoken. 'So many gents there, Bertie. And all so enamoured of me!'

'Yes, I suppose if you don't mind being pawed by coves who've lived through the Great Potato Famine, then it's quite the treat.'

'I've never felt so free, Bertie,' Cyril said, his eyes bright with happiness. His voice became quiet. 'I've never felt so right.'

I didn't have it in me to mock that assertion; Lord knows I felt much the same. I leaned forward in my armchair and patted my old friend on the knee. 'I'm glad, Cyril,' I said with a gentle smile.

'We must do it again,' he insisted.

'Of course, old bean, of course.'

'Tonight.'

I nearly dropped my lit gasper onto the carpet. 'Tonight? Do you think that's wise? I mean to say, you don't want to overdo it, what?' But truth be told, I was less concerned about the health of my old school chum than I was with the thought that, if I went to The Black Cloak that night, Jeeves wouldn't be there; it wasn't his evening off. And I didn't fancy an evening of standing uselessly in the main hall of the club all alone while Cyril mingled.

'It must be tonight,' Cyril said. 'Please, Bertie. If you don't come with me, then I'll just have to go by myself.'

Well, I didn't need a crystal ball to know that was a terrible idea. I acquiesced grudgingly just before Jeeves trickled in with the tea tray. I sipped at a thoughtful cup and wondered what I should wear for the evening's outing.

Of course I needn't have worried; Jeeves had the answer as usual, and he was stuffing me into some finery when I mentioned, 'Jeeves, I might be out quite late tonight with Cyril.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Yes. I don't want you to wait up, you know. As it will be really rather late, I imagine, when I return.'

'It is no hardship, sir.'

'I know, Jeeves. I only mean to say, well,' I lifted my chin to allow him to fix my tie, which had drooped from its perfect butterfly shape while Jeeves had been brushing my jacket, 'if you would like to take the evening off, that would be all right with me.'

Jeeves caught my eye for just a split second before he moved off to choose a pair of highly polished shoes from the wardrobe. That short glance told me nothing of value, as Jeeves is as proficient in hiding his emotions as a professional card player. 'There are several household chores, sir, which need to be seen to tonight.'

'Ah.' I fidgeted my hands in my trouser pockets while Jeeves slipped the shoes onto my waiting socked feet. 'I see. No matter; just thought I'd point it out. In case you wanted to have the evening to yourself.'

'Thank you, sir. However, I believe I will complete the day's chores before retiring with an improving book.'

There was something rummy in the way Jeeves said 'improving book' just then; I gave him the squinty eye, trying to ascertain if he was being honest or if he was being coy like he had been the night before. But as always, it is difficult to tell with Jeeves. I said my goodbyes and left the flat to meet Cyril.

Our second night at The Black Cloak was no quieter than the previous venture, to my surprise. Sunday nights are traditionally treated as a recovery period, when young Turks like myself might nurse our sore heads in bed with a pot of tea and a stack of digestives. The Drones, for example, is often quite empty on a Sunday night. But the Cloak? As hopping as I had last seen it.

Cyril and I entered with our masks firmly in place, and he clutched at my arm as he spotted one of his older gentlemen off in the distance.

'Oh, Bertie, Geoffrey is here again!' he cooed. (I could hear in his voice that this was Geoffrey with a G; Cyril isn't the type to fall for a Jeffrey with a J, even if it was a false name.) 'I simply must speak to him. I do hope he remembers me.'

'How could he forget? I'm almost certain you fell into his lap when I tried to get you down from the tabletop last night.'

Cyril didn't seem to hear me. He made a beeline for his Geoffrey and left me very much in the dust. I looked round the bustling hall. One's eyes might have been playing tricks on one, but I thought I counted one or two Lords of high standing among those assembled. Well, I mean to say. If Lords can get by, then perhaps there was some hope for us after all.

I leaned against a dark wood-paneled wall and rummaged in my waistcoat pocket for my cigarette case. Cyril hadn't so much as thrown a glance back at me, but at least the object of his affections appeared to recall who he was; they were chatting in an animated fashion already. At least one of us will have a fine time, I thought as I finally found my silver case. I hadn't even gotten the gasper to my lips when a sudden flick of a lighter appeared before my nose. I looked up past the little dancing flame to see Jeeves standing there by my side.

'Good evening,' he said. 'Did you need a light?'

I daresay he must have been as fast as lightening; he was dressed in a perfect ensemble, his little domino mask firmly in place. How the devil had he gotten here so quickly, I wondered. Could he really be two identical people? The thought of two Jeeveses orbiting round London floated unbidden to my mind, and I smirked a bit as I leaned in to take the offered light.

'Something amusing, Nicholas?' Jeeves asked after he'd clicked his lighter shut.

'Just wondering at your sense of timing, Victor,' I said, letting the smoke trail out of my nostrils. 'I was resigned to holding up this wall all evening.'

'Now you needn't be,' Jeeves said with that glimmer of a shadow of a ghost of a smile.

'Now I needn't be,' I agreed.

A small silence descended between us, and the noise of the conversation in the hall swelled all round. On the other end of the room, a four-piece brass band pulled out their instruments and struck up a lively tune. It was a popular ditty, one I hadn't yet learned, but one I could hum. A ripple of excitement seemed to sweep through the club, and men began rearranging the heavy furniture to make more space for dancing.

I watched a few couples step onto the dance floor. It seemed the policy for two chappies dancing together varied widely. A few men took the role of the women, allowing their partners to lead them along. Other couples merely wrapped their arms round each other and swayed in a way that was not quite dancing and more like rubbing. Well, necessity is the mother of whatsit and all that. I smoked and watched.

'You wouldn't have stayed by the wall for very long,' Jeeves finally said, leaning close to my ear so I could hear him over the roar of the music. His breath tickled my skin.

'What do you mean?' I asked.

He tipped his head, indicating something over my shoulder, and I turned to look. There was that blasted Peter, the one-track cove from the night before. He was lounging on a chaise with a flute of champagne in hand, openly staring in my direction. When he caught my eye, he raised his glass in salute. I returned the gesture with my cigarette, not wanting to appear rude.

'Peter has a liking for,' Jeeves paused, and his voice seemed to drop even lower as it breathed against my ear, 'fair young gentlemen. I suppose he will want to dance with you.'

'Oh, really?' I hoped that Jeeves was mistaken, but even as I watched, Peter lifted himself into the vertical position and began stalking his way toward me. 'Oh. Really.'

'If you wish, I might explain to him that you are here only to escort your friend Sebastian,' Jeeves offered.

'Would that dissuade him, do you think?' I whispered out of the corner of my mouth as Peter came closer and closer.

'Probably not,' Jeeves admitted.

'Fantastic.' I forced a smile onto the Wooster visage as Peter pulled abreast of me. 'What-ho, what-ho!' I hailed jovially.

'Would you care to dance?' Peter asked me, his eyes glued to what appeared to be my hip region. I was about to stammer out some sort of reply (what, exactly, I haven't the slightest idea), but Jeeves stepped in as if Peter's question had been directed at himself!

'Yes, Peter, I'd love to,' he said, and took the other man's arm before he could protest. Peter turned rather red in the face and sputtered some, but Jeeves was the bigger cove, so Peter was manhandled onto the dance floor nicely. I waggled my fingers at him when he craned his neck round to stare balefully at me as he was dragged off.

Of course, Jeeves sorted it so that he was the one leading. I chuckled behind my hand as the blister was forced to place a hand on Jeeves' shoulder like a lady would; he was just fuming at the indignity of it, but what could he do but be led? Peter was a sure-footed chap, it seemed, but he didn't have a patch on Jeeves' dancing skills. I watched them take a few turns round the floor, and then I biffed off in search of a drink.

A few minutes into a topping martini, I heard the song end and another begin. Jeeves drifted back to my side soon after.

'Very white of you to take the bullet, so to speak,' I told him as I gestured to get the barman's attention.

'I couldn't have stood idly by and allowed you to brave Peter alone,' Jeeves said. He asked the barman for a whiskey sour and returned his attention to me. 'He steps on one's toes rather forcefully.'

'Ah, yes, but does he always step on toes, or is it just your toes he has it in for?' I laughed.

Jeeves received his drink, and I instinctively offered the rim of my glass for a shared toast. It's the thing to do when you're having a corking good time with a friend at a night club, what? I didn't even think twice about it.

But Jeeves looked at my offered glass like he was faced with Solomon's bally puzzle. My grin faltered; was toasting too intimate a thing to share between employer and employee, even when they were pretending to be just two normal chaps?

However, after a mere second of indecision, Jeeves clinked his glass against mine gently, and the light ring of it brought my smile back.

'Jolly good,' I said, and drank. Jeeves followed suit. We had quite a few cocktails as we chatted about light topics. The cinema, mostly. I hadn't known Jeeves to be a regular patron of the pictures, but he seemed to have a lot to say about it. He'd seen _The Big Parade_ three times already, and intimated that he wouldn't mind seeing it for a fourth.

I'd liked it well enough, but when I'd seen it for the first and only time a month before, my enjoyment had been severely handicapped by a woman in the row behind me who sobbed loudly into her hands from the first scene to the last. As a result, I'd missed most of the story. Jeeves attempted to fill me in, bunging in a lot of technical details on the camerawork and so on.

'You're quite the expert on this, what?' I shouted into his ear over the din. The crowd at the bar was absolutely crushing us on all sides, and the noise made it very difficult for Jeeves to make out my words.

'Pardon me?' He leaned in closer.

'I said—! Oh, dash it, it's much too loud in here,' I cried. 'Can we go to one of those alcove thingummies, Victor?' (A small thrill ran through me every time I used that false name; it was like a secret game that only the two of us could play.)

Jeeves stared at me for a moment before saying, 'I'm sorry, I must have misheard you again.'

'The alcove business! A quiet place where we can talk!' I gave up on trying to yell over the throng of men at the bar and instead took Jeeves' wrist in my hand. 'Come on.' I led him through the pressing crowd in what I thought was more or less the direction of the alcoves. I picked one hallway and pulled back its heavy velvet curtain. 'Ah, here we are,' I said, seeing the narrow hall lined with small niches. Each was a little horseshoe shape carved into the wall, complete with a cosy cushioned seat and small table. Those alcoves that I saw were unoccupied, as it seemed the ones that were already taken had their own little curtains drawn to hide them from the eyes of outsiders.

'Oh, this is a much better place to hold a conversation.' I flopped onto the nearest empty seat, testing its springiness. 'Don't you think?'

Jeeves remained standing, his face taking on that stuffed-frog expression even behind his domino mask. I was about to ask him what the matter was when I heard the distinct sound of male moaning from the niche next to mine. I glanced over to see a bare foot, toes curled tight, poking out from under the curtain. Another moan wafted from that direction, along with a happy giggle.

'I say,' I I-sayed. I hadn't realised that when Jeeves said 'a quiet place' he'd actually meant 'a place to fornicate rather blatantly'. Now that it dawned on me what the true purpose of this section of the Cloak was, I could hear and see the signs of illicit liaisons all round. A discarded sock in the middle of the hallway, as if it had been tossed there blindly in a mad dash to unclothe a lover. A low smacking sound of fierce kissing down the way. A whispered direction that I dare not repeat here, as it was rather rude.

'We might go back to the bar for another drink, if you'd like,' Jeeves said in that gentle, knowing way of his.

But I was feeling stubborn and not a little silly for dragging the both of us to this place. I didn't want Jeeves to think I was a complete innocent, after all. So I said, 'I'm not about to jump and cry "ho!" at the sight of a bare foot.' I patted the cushion next to me. 'Sit and tell me some more about these new cameras you know so much about.'

After what appeared to be an internal struggle that lasted several moments, Jeeves finally did sit down. I sipped at my cocktail while he spoke. 'Sebastian is fortunate to have such an understanding friend accompanying him. You're very kind, Nicholas.' He placed his whiskey on the little table before us and laced his fingers together between his knees. 'But you needn't attempt to accommodate me at the risk of your own comfort. You don't have to prove to me how sympathetic you are to men such as myself; it's readily apparent.'

I didn't get his meaning. 'I don't get your meaning.' I furrowed a curious brow. 'Men such as yourself?'

'Homosexuals,' he clarified.

I had never heard that word spoken aloud. Bally strange, I know, but it wasn't one that was bandied about the Drones very often, and certainly not at my aunts' dinner tables. Reading it in the papers or books of ethical theory, as one sometimes does, gives one the impression of a hard-edged word, rough and lewd. But the way Jeeves said it, it could have been music.

I recovered from that shock as quickly as I could. 'Victor, why would I worry about appearing unsympathetic toward homosexuals?' I frowned. 'I am one, you know.'

Jeeves paused, lifted his drink, and took a long sip. This action betrayed no tremor of shock, but I, who knew him well, could sense it coming off of him in buckets. When he was finished draining his glass, he said, 'I had assumed you were merely supportive of your friend. I . . . was under the impression that your tastes ran to the female.'

'Golly, a gentleman shouldn't kiss and tell,' I said, 'but I think I'm right in saying I gave women their fair chance.' I shrugged. 'That never went anywhere.' I didn't particularly wish to elaborate; the embarrassment was particularly painful to recount. I mean to say, one can objectively proclaim a profile to be top notch, but when said profile is facing one straight-on and in a darker and emptier room, it takes on a whole new look, what? One of many reasons, I'm sure, why I wasn't suited to the owner of that corking profile.

'You also expressed disinterest in Peter, and—'

'Oh, yes, well.' I gestured vaguely. 'The chap's all right, I suppose. Not bad to look at, of course, but just not my type of biscuit, what?'

'Nicholas, I've also noticed that you do not seem openly interested in any other men in the club. It is the norm for patrons to appraise each other, yet you have not.'

I lit a nervous cigarette. Was he saying I was some sort of eunuch? 'I suppose I haven't had much time for it,' I said. 'I've been too busy chatting with you, haven't I? And you haven't been giving any birds the glad eye either.'

Jeeves seemed to bristle at this thingummy of mine; what's the word? Starts with def- I think. Deferential? Deflection! That's the ticket.

'My affairs are no business of yours,' he said, and his voice was so cold, his tone so bally chilly, that I immediately regretted what I'd said.

'Sorry, old thing. I didn't mean to touch a nerve.' I offered him my open cig. case, hoping it might smooth things over. He accepted a gasper and, as I had my lighter handy still, allowed me to light it for him. I did so carefully, mindful suddenly of how close we were on the little plush seat. My knee brushed his as I leaned close.

We smoked in silence for a short time before Jeeves said, 'My apologies. You had no way of knowing you were treading on a sensitive subject.' His eyes seemed to focus on something far in the distance, an old memory perhaps. 'My celibacy is not exactly a secret, but it is not something I can easily explain.'

Now, I wasn't about to judge. After all, the youngest of the Woosters had, for all intents and purposes, rebuffed the tender arts as well. Not that I'd set out to become celibate, of course, but after leaving Oxford and failing so dreadfully to click with the female of the species, I had sort of foundered on the rocks of love. And being beached was just fine with me; at least I was out of the bally water. So of course I did not look down on Jeeves for his decision.

'No need to explain,' I said. 'It's your Aston; keep it in the garage if you like.' I used my empty martini glass as a substitute ash tray and shot him a little grin.

The half-smirk of his let me know he hadn't taken my gag the wrong way. 'You certainly have a way with words,' he said.

I gave an embarrassed wave of my hand as if swatting away a complimentary fly. 'Most people just think I'm barking mad when I say things like that.'

Jeeves gave a twitch of his lower lip that said _let 'em think what they like_. 'I think you have a real gift.'

I fidgeted like a schoolboy, first with the end of my finished cigarette, then with the stem of my dirtied martini glass. Maybe you're not aware of this, but I'm not often showered with praise. My friends and relatives all seem to barely tolerate my habit of writing out my little stories for serials and whatnot; certainly not one of them has ever congratulated me on the feat. I had always assumed that Jeeves, too, had no taste for my scribblings. Which was fine; they were frivolous, and he was not. I had had no inkling that he might actually consider me mildly entertaining. It felt, well, I daresay it felt rather fantastic.

'I—I say. Thanks awfully.' I looked up at him, still a bit nervous that Jeeves was putting me on and would, at any moment, laugh at me and reveal the whole thing to be a ruse. But he was only sitting there, smoking my cigarette, his dark blue eyes doing that sparkling trick they sometimes do when he wants to smile but can't be bothered.

And, again, he was sitting much too close. I could smell the faint lingering scent of his aftershave. My gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth.

Everything went all quiet for a moment. My ears had even blocked out the quiet moans that were going on all round us. The world seemed to shrink down to just that little alcove containing Jeeves and myself.

Just then, Cyril came bursting in. Of course.

'What-ho!' he cried, nearly giving me a heart attack. 'Bert— I mean, Nicholas, thank goodness you're here! What luck.'

Cyril had his silver-haired gentleman in tow, and I realised I had to introduce them both to Jeeves. Oh Lord, I prayed, please don't let Cyril ruin this for Jeeves.

'Sebastian, this is _Victor_,' I stressed. 'I _just_ met him last night.'

Poor Cyril, who's even dumber than this Wooster, shook Jeeves' hand without even a hint of recognition passing over his face. 'Good to meet you, good to meet you. This is Geoffrey.' And we all had another round of hand-shaking and how-do-you-do's. Then Cyril said, 'Look, Ber— I mean, Nicholas, would you mind terribly if I borrowed your alcove? You don't seem to be using it, you see.'

I glanced round the hall. During the time that Jeeves and I had been talking, the other alcoves had all filled up, leaving us with the only non-curtained niche in the whole place.

Well, what's a gentleman to do but let an old friend have it? Jeeves and I acquiesced as gracefully as possible, and Cyril and his chap took our places and drew the curtain, muffling their delighted giggles. Now that our spot had been taken, I wondered how wise it would be to venture back to the bar. The thought of running into Peter again didn't cheer me. I stood there awkwardly with Jeeves, wondering what to do next, when I heard the band strike up a new number. It was a favourite of mine, that new waltz from that Irving Berlin fellow.

A thought occurred to me: if Jeeves could pretend to be someone he was not, and do and say things he normally wouldn't be able to do and say, then I could try the same. After all, I was merely Nicholas Benton, Esq., inverted piano player. I could do whatever I wanted. I slid my hand into Jeeves' and quirked a smile at him.

'Would you care to dance with me? I promise your toes will come out intact.'

Jeeves' eyes took on a hooded appearance within their mask-holes. 'I'm not sure that would be a good idea, Nicholas.'

'Oh, come. You'll dance with the likes of Peter, but not me?' I pulled him toward the main hall. 'That's not very sporting of you.'

As we neared the dance floor, Jeeves leaned down to speak into my ear. 'Would you rather lead or follow?'

'Tosh. I could do either.' I nodded in the direction of two chaps who'd circumwhasited the issue altogether, with the both of them wrapping their arms round each other's hips and dancing close. 'Or we could just do as they do.'

'I'll lead,' Jeeves said dryly.

So he did.

I don't know if you know this Berlin waltz? 'Always', it's called. It's usually sung by a very robust woman with a good set of pipes, but the Cloak had only a tenor chap on hand. He did a passable job of it, though. Anyway, this four-piece band slowed down considerably in their playing of it, making it even more melancholy than when I'd first heard it. I allowed Jeeves to lead me round the floor, which was quite crowded at this juncture. I pressed closer to Jeeves so we were dancing cheek-to-cheek. His hand tightened minutely on my hip, but otherwise he did not flinch.

'When the things you plan,' the singer cooed, 'need a helping hand, I will understand. Always.'

'Al~ways,' I breathed along with the refrain; the word brushed along Jeeves' cheek under my lips.

I have no idea what Jeeves did for the rest of the dance, but I let my eyes close as we glided along. Since we are both on the tall side, there was no ungainly shifting as there sometimes is when one dances with a diminutive filly. It was simple, and it was pleasant. When the song tapered off to a close, I felt like someone about to be woken up from a topping midday nap. I didn't want it to end.

When the band stopped playing, and everybody clapped for them, Jeeves and I separated. I looked up at his masked face, and I knew I'd made a bloomer. He did not look like a man who'd just danced a lovely waltz with his new friend, Nicholas Benton. He looked like a man who'd been tossed into a cage with a hungry lion and told, 'Try to pull the tooth that's ailing him'.

For one moment, I nearly forgot myself. 'Jee—' I paused and tried again. 'Victor. Are you all right?'

'Please forgive me. It's getting very late and I must go,' he said, and, as the band took up a new song, Jeeves turned away from me and began steaming his way through the crowd. I stood rooted to the spot for a second or two before vaulting after him; he was headed toward the exit.

'Victor, wait!' But he beat me to the foyer door, and it closed behind him with a loud click. I tried to open it, but it was locked. A helpful chap passing by with a tray of drinks explained all to me: since patrons removed their masks in the foyer, the doors were kept locked until the foyer was empty. I would have to wait for the attendant to unlock it. But by then Jeeves would already be gone.

I tried to follow anyway once I was able, thinking maybe I could catch up to him, but this is Jeeves we're talking about. He had disappeared like a fine mist after sunrise. 'Was it something I said?' I muttered to myself as I stood on the pavement. We had only danced, after all. Jeeves had done as much earlier in the evening with that Peter cove. Surely it wasn't an affront to his celibate lifestyle that I had waltzed with him, what?

No, I was sure my dancing was not what had upset Jeeves. It was the fact that I was his employer. No matter how hard I pretended to be someone else, he would always see me as that silly, empty-headed Wooster. And silly, empty-headed employers do not waltz with dashing, brilliant employees. It was just not on. I kicked a stone and began the plodding journey back home, wondering what I would say to Jeeves once I got there.

 

[Continue on to Part 3.](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/500763.html#cutid1)


	3. triedunture: Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts (Part 3)

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [jeeves](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/jeeves)  
  
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_ **Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts (Part 3)** _   


As it turned out, I didn't have to say anything. Jeeves had beaten me by a mile, and he was back in his valeting togs and relieving me of my gentlemanly accoutrement as I came in the door. He spoke before I had a chance to.

'While you were out, sir, I conducted an inventory of household supplies and found your new bath soap to be almost unused. Do you dislike the brand? I might endeavour to find a suitable replacement.'

'What? Er, no, Jeeves. The soap is fine.'

'Very good, sir.'

'Jeeves?'

'Yes, sir?'

'Do—do I have anything to apologise for? To you, I mean.' I scratched my head in a worried manner.

Jeeves was the opposite of nonplussed. Plussed, I suppose you could say. 'No, sir,' he said smoothly, 'I am not aware of any outstanding transgressions on your part. Will that be all, sir?'

'Yes, Jeeves. That will be all.'

But that was bally well not all!

Over the course of the next few days, there was a noticeable strain in the air at the Wooster abode. Jeeves conducted his valety offices with all the efficiency and grace as usual, but he didn't do it with relish, if you get my meaning. Perhaps I was over-analysing the whole sitch, but he appeared to be more aloof than before, if you can credit it. For example, it was one of our normal wheezes that, upon waking and drinking my first cup of the day, I would ask, 'Jeeves, what sort of day is it?' And Jeeves would give me a detailed report on the weather, touching on the fluffiness of the clouds, if there were clouds, and the chances of rain, if there was to be rain. I was under the impression that Jeeves enjoyed telling me about what the day would bring; why else would he do it so thoroughly?

But the morning after we'd danced at The Black Cloak, I awoke, took a sip of the tea Jeeves had just delivered, and said, 'Jeeves, what sort of day is it?'

To which Jeeves replied, 'A Monday, sir.' He seemed too preoccupied with setting out my shoes to pay me any more mind.

So I pressed him. 'Will there be any rain, do you think?'

'I cannot say, sir. I have not had an opportunity to consult the barometer this morning.' He took my suit coat from its hanger and brushed an invisible load of lint from its sleeves.

I frowned at this. I didn't even know we had a barometer. But that made sense, I suppose; Jeeves couldn't be plucking these weather forecasts of his from the clear blue sky. And what the devil was keeping him so busy that he couldn't glance at the bally barometer, if that indeed was what he usually did in the mornings.

I was going to ask him all of this when Jeeves turned from the wardrobe to open the bedroom curtains. A shaft of morning sun sluiced across his map, and I daresay I jumped out of bed faster than if a porpentine had wandered into the bedclothes.

'Sir?' Jeeves asked as I peered closely at his now-illuminated face. 'Is something the matter, sir?'

I dropped my gaze and sighed. 'Sorry, Jeeves. I thought I saw, erm, a spider.' I shuffled toward the bathroom. 'I could tuck into a rasher of bacon for breakfast, Jeeves, if there's any on hand.'

'Yes, sir. Very good, sir.' And Jeeves trickled out to prepare the morning repast.

I watched him go. And wondered why he was wearing stage makeup to conceal the dark circles under those intelligent eyes.

It wasn't something one would have ordinarily noticed, of course, but I have quite a few friends who work in the theatre like Cyril, and I'm aware of the effect that a thick pancake or rouge can have on an actor's cheek. And I had been tracking Jeeves like a hawk, hoping his expression would betray some clue as to what the bally hell was going on. Now I worried. Was he losing sleep? What was the matter with him, and how could I fix it?

The most frustrating part of this whole business was that I couldn't just talk to Jeeves about it. He had shut me down like an old oil lamp factory when I'd tried to broach the subject the night before. It was clear to me that I had to wait to talk to the one person who could help me: Victor.

When he was playing at being Victor, Jeeves was so much more open. He would speak to me like an equal, and he wouldn't need to hide behind his profession. I hoped that Cyril would roll up to the flat and again insist we pay a visit to the Cloak, but he didn't. I telephoned him that afternoon to see if perhaps I could persuade him to go, but he would hear none of it.

'I'm never showing my face in there again, Bertie,' he moaned through the 'phone. 'Do you have any idea what that beast Geoffrey did to me?'

'I'd rather I didn't, actually,' I said with a grimace.

'After we'd made love, I asked him to escort me home, and do you know what he said?' Here, Cyril took on the rolling Yorkshire accent of the elder gent. '"Oh, Sebastian, I fear it's quite impossible. I've only just met you, dear boy, and I shan't remove my mask in front of you yet, you understand." I mean to say, what sort of rubbish is that!?'

'Perhaps he's very famous,' I suggested.

'He is jolly well _not_ famous,' Cyril seethed over the line. 'He's a miserable old man who must rely on this stupid mask game to make it seem as if he has some mystery about him! I hate it, and I hate him, and I'm not going back there.'

'Well, erm, Cyril,' I looked round the sitting room, but Jeeves was nowhere in sight, so I turned back to the receiver. 'I rather wanted to go back sometime. Maybe this coming week-end? I wanted to speak to that Victor fellow once more.'

'What? YOU?' Cyril sputtered. I held the 'phone away from my ear until he was done screeching.

'Yes, me.'

'And that tall, dark chappie?'

'Well . . . .'

'He's a bit on the handsome side for you, isn't he? I say this as a friend, Bertie. Maybe you should stick to your own league.'

I pinched the bridge of my nose between two fingers. 'Cyril, I just want to talk to the man. That's all. Will you please come with me?'

'Sorry, old thing, but there's no way I'm going to face Geoffrey again after what he said to me.'

'I'll give you a fiver and pay for all your drinks.'

'. . . So is Saturday night good for you, then?'

I spent the rest of the week at the Drones for the most part, soaking up the familiar atmosphere of a place filled with old friends. I played a few rounds of darts and dinner-roll cricket, and enjoyed myself thoroughly. But I couldn't shake the nagging thought that none of them save Cyril knew this thing about me, this thing that I hadn't thought was very important until now. And I couldn't speak to a soul about it.

Saturday rolled round and Jeeves dressed me for my evening out. He did so in relative silence, and when he was finished, I made quite a pretty picture. I tugged on my white buckskin gloves and sized myself up in the full-length mirror.

'A magnificent effort, Jeeves,' I proclaimed.

'Thank you, sir.'

'I'm going to be venturing forth with Mr Bassington-Bassington once more. We shan't go to the Drones, I don't think. We'll go, erm, elsewhere.' This was my rather sloppy attempt at letting him know my intentions. After all, if he didn't appear at the Cloak that evening, it would be a wasted opportunity. 'And I imagine I'll be out rather late.'

'Very good, sir.'

'This is your evening off, isn't it? Will you be motoring round to any shindigs, Jeeves?'

'I cannot say, sir.' He stepped behind me to give the old shoulders one final sweep with the lint brush. 'I have made no definite plans.'

I screwed up the Wooster courage and said in what I hoped was a light tone, 'It would be jolly good fun if you could come paint the town red tonight, Jeeves, don't you think?'

Jeeves met my eyes in the mirror, over my shoulder, and then looked away. 'I prefer to spend my evenings with—'

'—an improving book,' I sighed. My shoulders slumped a bit dejectedly.

'Indeed, sir.'

I wanted to spin round and shake him by the arms and cry, 'This is madness! Why are we speaking like this when you and I have laughed together, drank together, shared our cigarettes and our lighters? Why can't we be like that now!?' But it was plain why we couldn't. He was Jeeves, and I was a Wooster.

'Tinkerty-tonk, then, Jeeves,' I said as I took my sorrowful leave.

I met Cyril on the pavement and we made our way once more to The Black Cloak. My old friend chatted airily the entire way, but I was consumed with the idea that Jeeves would not be making an appearance tonight at the club, and I would never have a chance to apologise to him for overstepping my bounds. I was losing all hope of things ever going back to normal.

Cyril noticed my morose mood, eventually. Once we were inside the club with our masks fitted to our faces, he declared that we were going to, quote, get as tight as two bally owls could possibly get, endquote.

'I really can't,' I said, craning my neck to peer pathetically round the crowded room. 'I need to speak to Victor first.'

'Do you see Victor here, Bertie?' Cyril asked.

'No.'

'And do you see the bar over there?'

'Yes.'

'Well?'

I admit he had a point.

I bought the two of us a round of stiff b. and s.'s, followed by a few martinis. I was almost beginning to enjoy myself when Cyril stopped in the middle of telling a joke to gawk over my shoulder.

'Oh, gawd-help-us,' he sneered, 'Geoffrey's here.'

'Just ignore him, then,' I said.

Cyril only ignored me, of course. 'Come on, Bertie. Let's join those birds over there.' He pointed to a table of dashed good-looking men who were drinking what looked like pure green neon.

'Oh, I'm not sure if that's—'

'This will teach Geoffrey a thing or two. Sebastian Croft is not to be trifled with.' Cyril steered me toward the enclave of green-swilling chappies and gave them all a friendly what-ho. I will say this about Cyril: though he can be an absolute pain in the gluteal region at times, he is tops when it comes to slipping into a party in progress. Within minutes, he had secured us chairs at the table and the man on my right was pouring me a drink from his bottle. Dashed odd cocktail, really. He first poured a bit of the green spirit into a glass, then over that he placed a tiny slotted spoon with a cube of sugar on top. He then carefully dripped some ice water over the whole thing. Once the sugar had dissolved into the glass, turning the green liquid cloudy, he took away the spoon with a flourish and told me bottoms up. 'I brought it back with me all the way from Paris,' he said to urge me on.

'Thanks awfully,' I said, sniffing at the milky liquid with suspicion. But Cyril shot me a rum look that told me in no uncertain terms that I was to drink up, so I did.

I don't know if you've ever had absinthe? It's a hellfire of a drink, I must say.

It tasted of anise and sharp sugar. It made for a unpleasant mouth-sensation, in my opinion, but once I swallowed it down, I was suffused with a feeling I'd never had with gin or brandy. I was tight as an owl, no doubt about it, but my head felt strangely free of muddled thoughts. It was very much like one of those dreams where you're standing rather outside of yourself, if you get my meaning, and clearly watching yourself as you go about your business.

It also had the effect of loosening my tongue, I daresay.

Cyril leaned across his new friend's lap and asked me, 'Bert— I mean, Nicholas, I've quite forgotten. Why are we here again? Didn't you need to do something, something important?' His eyes were a rummy sort of red; Cyril had always been given to bloodshot eyes when he was in his cups.

I leaned across the man sitting between us as well so Cyril could hear me. 'I need to find Victor,' I said. 'I'm daffy for him and I'm afraid I've mucked the whole thing up.' The words hadn't even tumbled from my lips before the other me, the one watching me make a fool of himself, slapped a hand over his eyes and moaned at the state of the Wooster brain. Daffy? Me? For Jeeves!?

My brain suddenly sped up to a thousand miles an hour. Yes, me, daffy for Jeeves. Was that so mad? Had I not been fascinated with him since the moment he'd stepped over my threshold? I was enamoured of him, of the way he moved, the clever way he spoke. Dash it, I'd written whole novels dedicated to his unending brilliance! It should come as no surprise to you, Wooster (my addled mind said to me), that you are h. over h. for your valet's brain. But ever since I'd seen him here at The Black Cloak, I'd discovered a whole new side to Jeeves. One that I quite liked just as much as the first side. I was suddenly taken with the thought that perhaps Jeeves had a million sides; many deep intellectual types do, you know. And it occurred to me that I wouldn't be at all upset if I was tasked with peeling back all the layers of the marvel known as Jeeves, even if it took a hundred years.

That sealed it, then. I, Bertram W. Wooster, was finally falling in love. I closed my eyes in bliss at the idea, resolved to float on the wondrous cotton fluff that had invaded my being.

But then:

'Victor!?' the man in the middle squawked at me, causing my eyes to fly open. 'Why, Victor doesn't go in for that sort of thing. Not these days. You'd be better off with someone who doesn't have a heart of stone, what?' He laid a friendly hand on my knee.

I swung my bleary gaze in his direction. 'What's your name?'

'Simon.'

'Well, Simon, I must tell you that I will _not_ be better off with someone who doesn't have a heart of stone, not that Victor does anyway. Also, you smell of beeswax, and I find that unappealing. And furthermore,' I pushed forward my empty cup, 'you should be pouring so as to make yourself useful.'

I'm not usually so frightfully rude, and never in the presence of new acquaintances, but the spirits had made me bold, and the fact that Jeeves was not there when I wanted him to be gave me the pip. So it all came out a bit harsh, what? But the men gathered at the table must have seen the humour in the thing, because they all gave in to raucous laughter, Simon included. He retracted his hand with an apologetic flourish and set about pouring more drinks.

I had a few more of these green cocktails, all while laughing and trading jokes with Cyril's new pals. They were a lively bunch, and soon we were all singing one of the new songs from that show, what's the chappie? Well, I've quite forgotten now. At any rate, it was around the second chorus that I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I looked up from my absinthe glass and there was Jeeves, looking none too pleased. I could tell even with the mask. The literal domino mask, I mean, not the metaphorical mask he wears while valeting about the place. Still, he looked fantastic in his arrow collar and tails.

Leaping from my chair, I forced myself to remember where I was and what I should address him as. 'Victor, I'm so glad you're here,' I began.

'Yes, Victor, you must have a drink with us!' Simon butted in.

Cyril and the other tablemates all joined in by shouting the invitation, but Jeeves inclined his head at them. 'I'm sorry, but I do not believe I would enjoy anise spirits.'

'Well, have you ever tried it? It's not so bad once you get over the first rough patch.' Cyril pointed out. 'Here, we'll pour you a snootful, and you can talk to Bert— I mean, Nicholas about whatever important thingummy he wanted to talk to you about.'

I cringed as I watched Cyril carefully pour the water over the sugar spoon. Did he have to speak so bally plainly?

Jeeves turned that piercing gaze on me full-tilt. 'What did you wish to discuss, Nicholas?' he asked, and I felt my tongue swell up like a bally sponge in bathwater.

'I just wanted to— Erm, that is, well,' I stammered. While the idiot version of me went on incoherently, the version of me that was watching myself was throwing his hands up in the air in defeat.

'Tell him you're sorry, you nincompoop!' that part of me yelled at my feeble brain.

'I'm sorry,' I finally got out, 'about the other night. With the dancing, I mean.'

Jeeves only looked at me and didn't say anything in return, so I babbled onward, trying to make a joke of it. 'I daresay I must have been the worst dance partner in the world, the way I ran you off at the end. I'm terribly sorry, old thing. Perhaps I shouldn't take the lady's role next time. Got all mixed up, what?'

Our conversation was interrupted by Simon and Cyril, who had found an extra chair somewhere and were directing Jeeves to take it. I was pulled back into my own seat, which was next to Jeeves, and Simon poured the whole table another round of absinthe. Jeeves took his glass with what looked like great disdain, and I scooted closer to him to try my hand at an apology one final time.

'Please don't be cross with me,' I whispered so that no one else would hear. 'I couldn't bear it. Really.'

'I am not at all angry with you,' he returned softly, still examining his cloudy white cocktail. 'My abrupt departure the other night was an unfortunate necessity. Believe me when I say you were not to blame.'

I let out a relieved sigh. 'Cigarette?' I snapped open my case and offered it to him, and he selected one with what I interpreted as a gesture of goodwill.

Cyril banged on the table just then and raised his glass high. 'Cheers, gents!' he bellowed, and everyone took their swig. I followed in due course, shooting Jeeves a glance over the rim of my cup. He gave me that rummy little almost-smile of his, and drank his portion down as well.

Everything seemed to be back on track, I mused in that swimming-drunk way that one sometimes does in the thick of a party. Jeeves and I were chummy once more, and perhaps I could delicately broach the subject of my _tendre_ at some later date, when we'd become more accustomed to each other's friendship, and when I had an inkling whether he might possibly return my feelings. Yes, I only needed to be patient and wait.

Which is why I found it so strange to be kissing Jeeves a few hours later.

If I were strapped into an interrogator's chair and told that a boatload of kittens would die if I didn't cooperate, I _still_ couldn't tell you exactly how it happened. I do know that more glasses of absinthe were involved, and perhaps a few other cocktails to wash them down. I'm fairly sure I goaded Jeeves into trying to keep up with me, though he did tell me he wasn't much of a drinker. 'It dulls my mind, and I can find no pleasure in that feeling,' he said, but I said phooey to that and nudged him to drink up. There was a very matey feeling at our little table, and the time seemed to fly by. One minute I looked at my pocket watch and it was 11:42. Only a few seconds later that same watch told me it was clearly 2:15. I imagined that the happiness I felt at sitting beside Jeeves and having such a fine time shortened the hours greatly.

At some point, I felt I should use the gents', and I rose on shaky pins to make my way thither. I was attempting to get sensible directions to the W.C. from Cyril, who couldn't even tell his left from his right by then, when Jeeves offered to guide me.

'I would also like to avail myself of the facilities,' were his exact words.

So we toddled through the crowd, I swaying to the music that was playing on a gramophone, and Jeeves walking sedately at my elbow. I believe he thought I was going to tip over at any moment, but I actually felt very alert. I told him several times not to worry about my balance as he led me down a quiet hallway toward what I assumed was the washroom. We passed several of the little alcoves on our way, and my face heated as I recalled our short time spent alone in one.

I looked over at Jeeves. Besides a faint flush on his cheek, he didn't look any different, as if the many drinks had taken no toll on him. His head still bulged at the back with the weight of that massive brain, and his eyes still took in the world with that calm gaze.

That gaze turned to me, and he caught me staring. 'Something wrong, Nicholas?' he asked.

Yes, I realised. Something was wrong, and I sought to make it right. I grasped the points of Jeeves' shirt collar in my hands, and I backed him against the wall using a technique known as blind luck. And before he could protest to being manhandled, I kissed him.

Now, it would be very easy to blame this all on the absinthe. And surely the other drinks I'd consumed that evening hadn't helped the Wooster brain in making informed decisions of any sort. But I tell you, readers of this tale, that my mind felt as clear and certain about kissing Jeeves as it did about walking or speaking or a hundred other natural things. I knew that I wanted this, wanted him, wanted the taste of him even masked by cigarette smoke and sickly sweet liquor. I kissed him only for a moment, not even enough time for him to reciprocate (if indeed he wanted to). A group of men were chattering their way down the hall, and my lips left Jeeves' to wait until they'd passed us by, and we were left alone in the dark hallway once more.

We stared at each other. 'This is wrong,' Jeeves said and the very same moment that I said, 'Let's make love.'

My hands has drifted upward to frame his face, and Jeeves caught those wandering hands of mine in a bruising grasp. I wouldn't say he exhibited open-mouthed shock, because he didn't. You'd only notice his extreme reaction if you knew him like I do; a widening of the eyes, a slight parting of the lips, told me all.

'What?' he whispered. 'No. No, we've both had much to drink, and—'

'Please.' My hands regained their freedom and clutched at Jeeves' immaculate stiff shirtfront. 'Oh my Lord, if you knew what you did to me—' My skin felt a size too small, and my blood was flaring like the dickens. I felt invincible, yet I was convinced I had to go through with this or else I'd die. I nuzzled my lips against the pale column of his throat. 'If only you knew, you wouldn't refuse me.'

Poet johnnies are often saying things like 'what happened next was all a blur', and I've never quite understood what they're on about. I mean to say, if you're going to have a pivotal scene, you should attempt to bally well describe it. However, I fear this Wooster cannot follow his own advice in this instance. All was, as they say, a blur. One moment I'm crushing Jeeves against a wall in a dark corridor and throwing myself at his proverbial feet, and the next we're barrelling our way into an empty alcove, quite attached at the lips and tearing at each other's clothes as if they were soaked in some deadly contagion and we were properly concerned for each other's safety.

Jeeves released me from his kiss for a moment, just long enough to growl, 'I could never refuse you.'

I beamed at the man and then kissed him again. Jeeves reached behind me and flung the privacy curtain closed, practically ripping it from its rings in the process. I became vaguely aware of our graceless sprawl across the cushions in the alcove, Jeeves underneath me, his arms wrapped round me, his hands moving up and down my spine. My fingers, which had taken on a life of their own, were tearing at his shirt studs, while he unknotted my tie from its perfect butterfly shape. That strange watching-myself-from-another-place feeling took hold again, and I was sure that this was a hallucination brought on by drinking too much of the green stuff. I had heard rumours that it would do that to you, but I was inclined to say dash it and carry on.

What happened next was nothing short of a frenzy. Muscles corded and flexed, fabric most certainly tore, and mutual biting and nipping replaced kisses for the most part. I was trying to touch Jeeves everywhere I could with my hands and mouth, and my energy must have been infectious, because he repaid me in kind. Before I knew it, Jeeves had shoved my coat and shirt and waistcoat and braces from my shoulders, and I tried to do the same for him. Jeeves had to sit up, of course, to cast off the offending garments, which meant that I was now straddling Jeeves' lap. Which, if the intensity of our next labial press carried any meaning, was just fine with the both of us. I bent to let my tongue take a swipe at Jeeves' left nipple, which was as dark as a bit of toffee, just as I'd always imagined. He threaded his fingers in my hair and arched into me with a groan that was downright obscene.

I don't mind telling you this all felt very strange, as if time had become as immaterial as a wraith; we could have been at it for hours or mere seconds by that point. And I wanted it to last as long as it could.

So when Jeeves reached up to caress my face, and his fingers brushed against my domino mask, I froze. The Wooster brain, which was admittedly not firing on all cylinders, shouted that this was a bad turn of events. Here I was, finally enjoying Jeeves' touch, and it was all under this guise that I had taken on. If he took away my mask, my drunken mind reasoned, the spell would be broken; he'd see it was just the same stupid young master whose socks he folded and whose trousers he pressed, nobody special; he would leave, just as he had after that waltz we'd shared, and I couldn't allow that.

'No! Please!' My hands flew to my mask, keeping it firmly in place. 'Let me keep it on. Please.'

This outburst of mine seemed to stop the Jeeves Express right in its tracks. His hands halted in their explorations, and Jeeves withdrew them completely. His eyes, which had been fastened to my map with all the intensity of a general going into battle, suddenly dropped.

He spoke, his voice low and somewhat small, if you can credit it. 'As you wish.'

I was mildly pipped that he should be so stalled by my mask; after all, he knew how necessary the dashed things were in this place. I made up my mind to make amends the surest way I knew how.

'Here, I know what will wipe away that sullen pout,' I said, pausing to nip at Jeeves' well-formed earlobe. 'Why don't you sit back for a mo' and let me do you a kindness.'

I half-slithered, half-flopped in a rather ungainly manner to the floor, where my knees struck the bare floorboards with a crack. A lesser man might have whimpered, but not this Wooster. Though I suppose I might have been a little numb to pain under the circs. Still, I knew it was going to leave a bruise, and I didn't care. I reached for Jeeves' flies, eager to have him for myself. I could clearly make out the shape of his member, hard in his trousers, and so I assumed my little venture would be a welcome addition to the evening's activities.

I know I said before that a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but without naming names, I can say that I have practised this manoeuvre before. In my youth, I'd gotten quite accomplished at it with certain chaps (let's call them Lingo Bittle and Pinger Guckthwaite), and, well, that was the extent of my inverted indiscretions, if I'm honest. But I was resolved to exert myself to the limits of my talents for Jeeves.

He seemed less than keen, though. His hands got all tangled up in mine, effectively jamming my attempts to loosen his flies. I gave a harrumph to show my displeasure, and he bent to capture my lips in a kiss that was as searing as all the previous ones we'd shared.

'What, exactly, do you imagine you're doing?' he asked against my neck when we parted. He sounded not quite as mocking as those words might lead you to believe. On the contrary, Jeeves' voice seemed to hold nothing but concern.

I drew back to look him in the eye. I sensed this was of great import. Caution was the ticket, I knew. Caution and sensitivity. 'I know you've been cell . . . cellophaned . . . ?'

'"Celibate" is the word you're looking for, I believe.'

'Yes, thank you. I know you've been celibate for awhile now, but maybe it's time to give it up, what?' I traced a fingertip down the curve of his cockstand, still straining against the fabric of his trousers; Jeeves gasped a breath before regaining his composure somewhat. I couldn't believe my own boldness, so I forged onward. 'Nothing lasts forever, you know.'

My argument must have been built upon sound logic, for Jeeves caved like a flying nocturnal rodent. His hands gave up their fruitless task of keeping me from my goal, and his eyes closed within the black eye-holes of his domino mask.

'Nothing lasts,' he agreed quietly.

I thought it best to make my move while Jeeves was so pliant. In a jiffy, I had got his flies unbuttoned and his prick well in hand. I rested my cheek against the top of his strong thigh like a languid subject in a Victorian painting, and I tracked the movements of my hand up and down the shaft of the thing. I glanced up at Jeeves' face after I'd completed a few back-and-forths, and he was looking down at me with the most curious expression painting his visage. He seemed to be thinking, in that silent and stuffed-frog way of his, the same thing that I was thinking, the thing was making my heart pound like a bally percussionist in my chest.

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening.

I felt incredibly light, and the little alcove we were in seemed very quiet, and the air felt very sluggish, like we were underwater. I held Jeeves' gaze with my own, and I tipped my head closer to his arousal so that my tongue could lick at it. Jeeves clamped a hand over his mouth to perhaps muffle a cry, and his other hand went to my shoulder. This, I surmised, was a positive reaction. I very much wanted Jeeves to enjoy this, especially after going without human contact for so long like he had. The elation I felt that I was the one providing said h. c. was beyond description. I allowed a self-satisfied smirk to play across my lips before sitting up straighter on my knees and really having a go.

I don't recall much of what I did in detail; I only remember it was dark, and Jeeves smelled wonderful, like an animal's musk, and I was so absorbed in giving him as much pleasure as I could that I licked and sucked at him quite frantically with very little finesse. As I took him in my mouth, I was obliged to open my own flies to release my erection before I burst. I hadn't felt so hot under the collar since my days at school, when nothing more than a stiff wind was liable to bring the Wooster corpus to military-like attention.

Jeeves must have sensed my pressing need, because when I lazily opened my eyes, I saw him staring down at me, alternately watching my mouth working at his cockstand and my hand working at my own. I softened my gaze as our eyes met once more, and I hoped he could read what I wished to say there: that he was so wonderful and I treasured him like none other.

His hand slid from my shoulder into my hair, where his fingers carded gently through my disarrayed curls. I waited for his grip to tighten, but it never did.

'S-stop,' he said all of a sudden. 'Please, no more.'

He was close to his peak. I could tell from the way his hips rose to meet my mouth and the way the muscles twitched in his thighs.

I pulled back enough to say, 'It's all right. You can finish.'

Jeeves' fingers trembled in my hair. 'I cannot,' he choked out softly.

'Finish for me,' I murmured against the damp skin of his cock.

And so he did, the moment I took him back in my mouth. I followed but two seconds later, spilling an embarrassing amount of fluid over my fist and down the front of my trousers. I ended up gasping for air on the floor, slumped against Jeeves' legs. As my eyes drifted shut, I remember his hand still resting on my head. I reached toward the gorgeous warmth of him on instinct and it all went black from there.

 

[Continue on to Part Four.](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/501190.html#cutid1)


	4. triedunture: Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts (Part 4)

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [jeeves](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/jeeves)  
  
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_ **Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts (Part 4)** _   


 

I woke up stretched out on my back, curved into the uncomfortable U shape of the cushioned seat. My shirt has somehow made its way back onto my frame, which was handy as it was chilly in the alcove.

I sat up suddenly and immediately regretted the swift change to the upright. As I clutched at my pounding head and waited for the room to stop spinning, I tried to think of why I was alone. Jeeves was gone, and no trace of him remained. My mind was a painful foggy thing, and it took a long moment for me to get it working passably.

First things first, I told myself. Was I sure that there was no trace of Jeeves? For one panicked moment, I considered that the entire evening had truly been a dream, but no: my knees ached like the dickens. I examined the sorry state of my attire. I had been shoved back into the clothes somewhat haphazardly, and not every button and fastener was done up, but at least I wasn't indecent. It even appeared that Jeeves (for who else could have done such a thing for me?) had blotted some of the sticky fluid from my hand and my trousers; the stains weren't as awful as they should have been.

I looked down at the floorboards and saw a crumpled handkerchief. I didn't dare touch it, for I could tell by the way it was all stuck together what it had been used for. I patted my suit coat's breast pocket and found I still had my own handkerchief in my possession.

Right, we're getting somewhere, I assured myself. Now if only I could play at Sherlock Holmes just like Jeeves always did. Any more clues as to Jeeves' actions and perhaps current whereabouts?

I spied an ash tray on the little alcove table. It was overflowing with the ends of gaspers much like the kind Jeeves sometimes smoked. Had Jeeves stayed for a long while, then? Or had that dirtied ash tray been there before we stumbled into the alcove? I couldn't remember. I rubbed at my aching temples. Why couldn't I bally remember?

Hope strayed into my train of thought and said that perhaps Jeeves had just gotten up to finally use the gents' and he would be back soon. Yes, that was it, I reasoned. He would be back in no time at all.

What time was it, anyway? I reached for my pocket watch.

'Seven-thirty in the bloody morning!?' I cried. I stared at the watch face for several more ticks of the second hand. Still the numbers did not shift. I had slept all through the night!

I lurched past the privacy curtain and into the hallway. All was silent. I lumbered my way to the washroom, which was just as empty. I gave my hands a quick rinse and splashed some cold water on my face. I looked in the cloudy mirror and saw that I was still wearing my idiotic mask. And my collar was bent, and my hair was an absolute rat's nest. But there was little I could do about all that, given that my head was currently filled with buzzsaws and brass bells.

Finally, I dragged myself to the main hall, which looked dashed deserted. There was only the elderly attendant, sweeping the remains of last night's revelry from the floor. He looked up at me and said, 'Ah, Mr Benton. Let me get your coat and hat, sir.' He abandoned his broom and headed toward the entryway.

I followed as best I could, weaving round overturned chairs and skewed furniture. 'Is Victor—?'

'Mr Larson left the premises some hours ago,' he informed me. 'Allow me to procure a taxicab for you.'

When the taxi spilled me out into Berkeley Square, I was still no closer to figuring out what the devil had happened to Jeeves. He might have left for any number of reasons. Knowing Jeeves, he was probably dying for a shower. I contented myself with these pathetic thoughts as I climbed the stairs and fumbled my key round in the lock.

'Jeeves?' I called out as I entered the flat. There was no answer, so I hung my coat and hat myself and moved with some difficulty toward the kitchen. My head was absolutely splitting. I needed one of those magic pick-me-ups that Jeeves always made for me, and I needed it now. 'Are you in, Jeeves?' I tried again.

There was no sign of my valet in the kitchen, but while standing in that same room I saw the door to his private lair was open, a rare occurrence.

I approached it with caution. 'Jeeves?' I asked once more, pushing the door wider.

Jeeves was, in fact, within the confines of his quarters. He was dressed in his usual clothing of pinstripes and morning coat, and he was seated on the edge of his thin mattress. In his hands he held a small black domino mask, and he did not look up from his contemplation of the item at the sound of my voice. I was about to make a new inquiry when he finally spoke.

'I cannot do this any longer,' he said softly.

Puzzled, I pushed past the door and stepped into Jeeves' room. 'Do what, Jeeves?'

'I cannot be a party to this,' he paused to shake his head, as if the words were too vile to give voice to, 'this _charade_. It has gone too far, sir.'

I licked my parched and cracked lips. 'I quite agree,' I said. 'Jeeves, it's time I told you something. Got it out in the open, as it were.' I took another step forward, and my hand reached out to nearly touch Jeeves' majestic shoulder. Still he didn't pick his head up. 'Do you think you could look at me, Jeeves?'

Jeeves turned to face me at last. I won't say he looked haggard, for Jeeves could never look anything so common as that. But there was a darkness round his eyes that no amount of stage makeup could conceal. Still, he looked a sight better than I felt after last night's binge.

In fact, the twinge in my chest told me just how much better he looked to me. Better than any other man in the whole world. I forged ahead.

'I—' I swallowed. 'I'm falling for you, old thing.'

I don't know what I expected. For Jeeves to soften like a jelly in the sunlight, perhaps, and offer a matching declaration for the young master? For him to take me in his arms and assure me that I was right to tell him how I felt? For a bally rhino to come charging through the flat? Who knows what I thought would happen.

But I certainly did not expect Jeeves to stand swiftly, the domino mask falling to the floor like forgotten detritus. Anger radiated from my man as he paced the small space of his lair with his hands balled into fists at his sides. Snorting puffs of air like a bull, he finally hissed, 'Sir, that is not true.'

'But it _is_ true, Jeeves.' I stared at him like a helpless thing. 'I love—'

'You're in love with Victor Larson!' Jeeves roared, wheeling on me at last. 'You love a man who does not exist!'

'N-no,' I protested. My brain, slow and fevered with the effects of the night's drinking, could barely grasp this turn of events. I had never seen Jeeves as furious as he was at that moment. Dash it, I'd never seen Jeeves as any-emotion as he was at that moment! 'It's you, Jeeves. It's you I—'

'Two and a half years, _sir_.' Jeeves said that 'sir' in a rummy sort of way, like it was a curse. 'For two and a half years I have been in your service. And not _once_ have you ever hinted that you hold any special fondness for me!'

'Now see here—!' I attempted to rally against this vicious onslaught of logic, but Jeeves persisted.

'You meet Victor Larson at an inverts' club, and within a matter of days, just _days_, you say you are in love? Forgive me, sir,' he snapped, 'if I take your words with a grain of salt!'

I worked my tongue round my dry mouth and gaped like a landed fish. 'But—'

Jeeves cut me off with a gesture, his hand slicing through the air mercilessly. 'You cannot ask me to continue in this vein. I will not allow you to—' He clamped his mouth shut, like speaking to me was causing him physical pain. There was a short silence, and then he continued.

'Sir, do not offer me a parody of love,' Jeeves said blackly.

Hot tears brimmed at the edges of my vision, and I fought to keep them in check. My mind raced back to the previous night, when we'd held each other's writhing bodies, and I had knelt to pleasure Jeeves with my mouth. My legs, which were shaky to begin with from my crippling headache, finally buckled under this added stress, and I sat heavily on the bed.

'Is that what last night was for you, Jeeves?' I asked in a low voice. 'A bloody parody?'

Jeeves crossed the room to his chest of drawers and began opening them and removing articles of clothing by the fistful. 'Last night was a mistake on both our parts,' he said without looking away from his task. 'I broke my self-imposed celibacy because I thought—I hoped—that it was something altogether different than what it was: a masquerade without meaning or permanency.' He produced a valise from somewhere or other and began filling it. I watched him, frozen, unable to stop it.

'You have fooled yourself, sir, into thinking you have emotions for me when you do not. It was an illusion of a man with a cigar and a fine suit that inspired your lust. There are hundreds of men like him in this city, sir. You will not go without for long.' Jeeves snapped the clasps of his valise closed. 'In time, you will see that I speak the truth. Now, however, I must leave.'

'Jeeves, please—' I stood to reach out for him, to keep him there with me, to make him believe me. But this is Jeeves we're talking about. He was gone before I'd taken a single step. I rushed to the door, down the stairs, even out into the street. But he had shimmered out of my life like a mirage.

A lesser man might have slumped into a corner and wept. For once, I thought the lesser man might be on to something, so I plodded back into the flat and did just that for a short space of time. But soon, I dried my eyes and resolved to fix this mess I'd gotten us into. I was convinced that Jeeves shared my feelings, or else he would not have exploded in such a rage. If he had felt nothing for me, he would have merely raised an eyebrow an eighth of an inch and said, 'You're in love with me, sir? Very good, sir. Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes.' If only I could make him see that I loved him, and not some part he was playing.

I knew I was in the right. It wasn't mere lustful urges that compelled me; last night _had_ meant something; and dash it, I sought permanency like a billy-o when it came to Jeeves! I didn't care about cigars or fine suits or any of that nonsense. I was willing to hand my heart to him, with or without it.

And damn it all, I would hand it to him if I had to strong-arm him into accepting it!

I uncurled from my corner and set about my task. First I had to claw my way back to the land of the living, which meant a hot bath and a breakfast all without the aid of my trusted valet. I made a hash out of the eggs and b., but the toast was edible. I ate it while soaking in the tub, heedless of the crumbs which fell into my bathwater.

I chewed. And I thought.

An idea occurred to me. I know, I was shocked too. But if Jeeves was to be shown the true depth of my feelings for him, I had to find him and explain all to him, from start to finish. I only hoped I wasn't too late.

Leaving the last slice of soggy toast floating in the bath, I leapt out of the water and into some clean togs. By the time I'd gotten myself decently clothed and brushed up, it was already after noon. I left the flat armed with an umbrella, since the skies looked so bleak, though it might have just been my view of the world that had gone black since Jeeves had gone.

The first stop I made was at the Junior Ganymede, of course. I had thought that this would be the first place that Jeeves would go. He could get a meal, commiserate with his fellow valets, and perhaps form a plan for his next venture in employment. But when I asked the club's doorman if Jeeves was in, he told me no. I wheedled; perhaps Jeeves was in and had asked not to be disturbed, in which case, I informed the doorman, this was a bally emergency and had to be brought to his attention immediately. Still the doorman said that Jeeves had not stopped by the Ganymede that day. I produced a crisp twenty pound note. The doorman took it. And told me once again that Mr Jeeves had not shown his face at the club since last Thursday, but if I would leave a telephone number, he promised to alert me if Jeeves turned up.

With no other recourse at that dead end, I gave the doorman the number and kept on.

I next visited The Agency. I had only been there once before, to inquire about a suitable valet. They had produced Meadowes, a man who stole my socks and nicked the gin from the sideboard at every chance. I had given The Agency a piece of my mind after that, I can tell you. And then they sent me Jeeves, for which, I suppose, I will always be grateful.

I thought that if Jeeves was in need of a new master, The Agency would be the first place he would go, what? But the secretary at the front desk told me they hadn't seen hide nor hair of Jeeves at all. Their records showed that he'd been on their roster of valets two and a half years ago, but he was currently listed as being in my employ. I slipped the secretary another piece of monetary assurance and instructed her to contact me if Jeeves came to them and attempted to change that listing.

'Has there been some sort of unpleasantness in Mr Jeeves' employment situation?' the secretary asked. She reached for her heavy files once more. 'I can procure a new valet for you, if you wish.'

I told her no and continued on.

I must have criss-crossed London a dozen times that day. After leaving The Agency, I went to Haymarket, where I remember Jeeves often did the shopping. There was no sign of him there, so I stopped by the tea shop he had frequented when that waitress had been besotted with him. Nothing. I went to the movie theatre, where I thought Jeeves might be taking in a matinee show, but that didn't turn up anything. The library, the museum, Hyde Park, the Embankment: all places I knew Jeeves enjoyed, places that I thought he might go if he needed to be alone to think. The more time passed without me getting any closer to finding Jeeves, the more anxious I became. What if he had just gotten on the first train out of London? He could be anywhere, and the city was so vast, and I wasn't clever enough to track him down on my own.

I sat on a wooden bench beside the Thames and held my head in my hands. The sun was going down. A misty, half-hearted rain began to fall. The air was getting chilly, and I was without my overcoat. I needed Jeeves to remind me about things like overcoats. I scrubbed at my tired face with my palm, feeling as worn out as a pair of rugger shorts at the end of the season.

There was only one more place I could think to go to look for Jeeves, and it would be difficult. I had meant to find Jeeves outside of that strange world of The Black Cloak. My plan hinged on explaining things to him rationally. And I needed to speak to Jeeves as Jeeves, not Jeeves as Victor. But dash it, if it was my only option, I had to try.

Besides, finding Jeeves at the Cloak was better than never finding him at all.

I made my way to the club, arriving just after 7 o'clock. I belatedly realised I wasn't wearing evening dress, and the elderly attendant looked at me askance, if that's the word I want, when I walked damply into the foyer.

'Mr Benton—' he began with a note of displeasure.

'Yes, yes, I know, I'm not dressed properly. I need to go inside just for a moment,' I pleaded.

The attendant shook his wrinkled head. 'I'm afraid you can't, sir.'

'Well.' I fretted. 'Can you at least tell me if Victor Larson is here tonight?'

The old man pressed his lips into a harsh line.

'Please,' I said, my voice cracking in a most embarrassing fashion, 'this is a matter of life and death.'

Normally, when detectives say that sort of rot in novels, the other characters gasp and speedily make way. Not so with this attendant johnnie. If anything, he looked even more unaccommodating. 'Sir, it is against club policy to—'

'How much?' I took out my billfold. 'Twenty? Fifty?'

'Mr Benton!'

'A hundred?' I counted out the notes and handed them over. 'It's all I have. Please, take it. I only need ten minutes.'

He gave me a searching eye and then, without taking my fistful of cash, handed me a domino mask with a sigh. 'Go on in,' he said. 'Just for ten minutes.'

'Thank you, oh, thank you, old top!' I could have kissed the man, but I was busy putting my money back in my billfold and slapping the mask over my map. He unlocked the door to the main hall, and I legged it.

The crowd was fairly thin, as it was so early in the evening, and I was able to scan the main hall with ease. It was the work of a moment to catch sight of a round table lined with several chaps, as they composed the largest knot of patrons. I recongised Horton from my first night at the piano, and Peter, and Simon, and Christopher, and several other birds that I had never been properly introduced to. And there, in their midst, presiding over the table like a statesman, was Jeeves. He was dressed impeccably in white tie; I idly remembered a night we had spent at Totleigh Towers, when I was so deep in the soup that I could have cried, and Jeeves had urged me to dress in my finest white tie instead of black to bolster my mood. It comforted me to think that perhaps Jeeves needed cheering at the mo' much like myself.

I approached swiftly, and as I did, I could hear the tail end of what had to have been Jeeves dispensing his legendary advice.

'—and so that is why you must send a letter to the board, Horton, after which time you shall seek out—' Jeeves glanced up at me as I came up alongside the table, and his gaze darkened almost immediately. 'Nicholas,' he said with the coldest disdain.

'What ho.' I looked round at the curious faces lining the table. This wasn't the place to lay one's heart on one's sleeve, dash it. 'Erm, Victor, might I have a word?'

He tapped his cigar over an ash tray at his elbow and somehow managed to look down at me from a chair. 'I would prefer to remain seated,' he said. 'If you have something to say to me, you will have to say it here.'

Horton, who seemed to sense the tension in the air, offered me a wane smile. 'Victor was just giving me some corking suggestions on how to secure a new lease,' he explained. 'Do you perhaps have a problem that needs his attention as well?'

'Oh, you can talk of your troubles in front of us, Nicholas,' Simon added. 'It's all right.'

I looked wildly over at Jeeves, but he made no move to help me. He only glared at me over the rim of his highball glass as he took a drink. I swallowed my pride and began in a shaky voice.

'Well, you see, the rummy thing is—' I looked round at the men seated at the table, and they all nodded in encouragement, save Jeeves. 'The thing is,' I continued, 'I've fallen in love. And the chap I love won't hear any of it.'

This brought out moues of sympathy from the birds in the audience.

'Is he married?'

'Perhaps he's not an invert?'

'Have you tried offering him a damn good—?'

'Peter!' Horton shushed him and everyone else at the table. 'Let him tell it, will you?' He turned back to me. 'So why isn't he receptive, lad?'

I licked at my dry lips and held Jeeves' gaze, which was hard and dangerous, as if daring me not to tread on unsafe ground.

'He thinks I want someone else. Another cove, you see, who isn't the first cove and who the first cove thinks is—'

'The same thing once happened to me,' Simon piped up from the peanut gallery. 'When I came to ask Victor about it, he found it helped if I referred to them as A and B. So why don't you make the first man, the chap you love, person A and the second one can be person B. It will be less confusing.'

'Right. Sorry.' I shuffled my feet, jittery with nerves. 'So A thinks I love B, but I don't. And I don't know how to prove it to A.'

The assemblage turned as one to Jeeves, ready to hear his invaluable words of wisdom. Jeeves set his cigar down in its tray and laced his fingers together on the tabletop. He resembled a disapproving bank manager as he leaned forward to quiz me.

'Perhaps, Nicholas, you should respect person A's wishes and cease your pursuit,' he intoned.

This answer didn't please the tablemates at all. There were squawks of disbelief from all corners.

'But Victor, of course he can't just give up!'

'Can't you see the boy's hurting?'

'Nicholas, what did you do to make this beloved of yours think such a thing?' Peter drawled.

'I didn't do anything! Well, nothing untoward, I assure you,' I sputtered.

'Oh?' Jeeves divided his attention between myself and his flute of champagne. 'So you did not, for instance, make love to B, all the while giving not a thought to A?'

'Certainly not!' I seethed. 'And you're a fool if you think so!'

An uncomfortable silence descended over the group gathered at the table, and Jeeves and I continued to shoot daggers at each other with our eyes. I stepped closer to Jeeves' chair, not caring any longer if this argument was hashed out in front of everyone at the Cloak.

'It was you I touched last night. Not Victor.' I tried to ignore the twittering whispers from the other men at this statement of mine. 'No other name even crossed my mind.'

I heard Peter whisper to Horton, 'He knows Victor outside of here, then. The two of them . . . .'

The look that clouded Jeeves' eyes was terrible: his anger melded with fear and panic. 'Don't you dare say another word,' he whispered.

'You needn't worry. I won't reveal your identity,' I promised. 'It's yours and yours alone. Just tell me what I can do to convince you that when I look at you,' I reached out carefully and traced the shape of his black mask with my fingertips, 'I see beyond this.'

The table seemed to hold their collected breath, and I did as well. Finally, Jeeves reached up and gently, slowly, heart-crushingly brushed my hand away. 'You do not understand what you see,' he said in a hoarse voice. 'You are mistaken, Nicholas.'

I flinched, stung at the use of that false name. A look round told me that the audience shared my feelings, though they averted their eyes from me.

'Fine,' I said. 'Right.'

I took a step back and was hit with a bolt of inspiration from heaven itself. Jeeves would only address me as Nicholas? Well, I would put an end to that. I would give Jeeves the only thing I had left to give.

I looked to my right and saw a small round drinks table being used by a pair of bearded chaps. With a muttered apology, I mounted their table to stand high above the assembled crowd of patrons. The beards protested to my feet knocking their ash tray to the floor, but I paid them no mind.

'Excuse me, everyone! Pardon me, hullo!' I clapped to get the attention of every last man in the room. Soon everybody was staring at me, standing on the table like a loon, and I proceeded. 'I'd like to make a small announcement. This man here,' I pointed at Jeeves, 'the man you know as Victor, and who I know as someone else entirely, is probably the most perfect and marvellous chap in the world, in my opinion. You may not agree, but there you are. To each his own. And I say this not as Nicholas Benton, but as—'

And here I peeled away my domino mask amid shocked exclamations from the crowd.

'—Bertram Wilberforce Woo—'

I would have carried on, of course, with the rest of the Wooster name, but Jeeves sprang to his feet and grappled me off my little table before the syllable could leave my lips. He slapped my mask back on my face and hissed under his breath, 'What in God's name are you doing!?'

Within the blink of an eye, Jeeves had frog-marched me from the main hall, where everyone was openly staring and pointing at us, through a red curtain to a relatively empty corridor. And it was there he resumed his verbal war upon my person.

'What madness has possessed you, sir?' he cried as he attempted to get my mask on straight.

I tore it off once more. 'I am not mad, Jeeves. I wanted to declare my intentions open and honestly, and I don't care who knows about it.'

'The masks are mandatory for a reason,' Jeeves lectured. 'Any number of blackmailers, sir, might be present at a given moment. We have had problems with them in the past. You could be arrested!'

'If I was, you would free me in some clever way,' I said with a shrug.

Jeeves stared at me hard. 'And if I did not come to your aid, sir?'

I lowered my eyes. 'Then what of it? Going on without you would be a prison, anyway.' At that moment, my exhaustion from the poor night's sleep and the long day running ragged seemed to catch up with me, and I slumped against the wall like a balloon filled with horseshoes. I rubbed at my sore eyes with my hands and fought the wave of self-pity that came from knowing that I would rather be in chokey than in my current circs.

'Sir,' Jeeves said, his voice suddenly quiet. Still, he stood an arm's length from me. I reached out and tugged his mask from his face so we could see each other as we spoke. His face was as blank as the mask I'd removed.

'Please believe me, Jeeves,' I said. 'I am speaking the truth when I say it's you my heart does flips for. Victor Larson was all well and good; without him I would have never known you were an invert like me, and I would have never been allowed to speak to you as a friend. I loved him, yes, but only because he's a part of you.' I examined the little mask in my hands. Such a small thing, I wondered. 'Jeeves, I can't make you accept me,' I continued, 'but I have to ask you to try. Please.'

Jeeves' large, warm hand rose to cup my chin, and he tilted my head up so that I would look him in the eyes once more. Those eyes, by the by, were so very blue, and so very sad.

'I could never refuse you, sir,' he said.

I gave a wry grin; even through all of this, Jeeves could still put a smile on my face. 'You bally well could, Jeeves,' I pointed out. 'You certainly did this morning, and just now, and—'

'I've loved you for an age,' Jeeves interrupted, surprising me something awful. 'From almost the first moment I entered your service, I knew what it was to love with no hope of requital. You mustn't hold it against me, sir, that I couldn't—' He stopped, and looked like he had a pain developing somewhere inside his chest cavity.

I tried to finish for him. 'You couldn't credit the young master's declarations, what? Especially when said y. m. is so frivolous and mentally negligible.' My own hand covered Jeeves' on my cheek, and I held it there for him.

Jeeves shook his head violently. 'No, it was no defect in your character that caused me doubt. It was my own.' His thumb made a soft acquaintance with my lower lip. 'How could you feel anything for a man as staid and colourless as myself, when you are so full of life? I was convinced it was only my alter ego, which I had invented to navigate this community of men with equanimity, that held your interest. Please forgive me, sir, but I must ask: did you really harbour tender feelings for me before you discovered me in this place?'

'I'll be honest with you, Jeeves,' I said. 'The truth is, after leaving behind the pashs that sometimes develop between young men during childhood, and failing so miserably to click with females, I had assumed that this Wooster would have to sit on the sidelines while everyone else played the game of love. It wasn't that I didn't find you brilliant or dashing; I did. Only, I didn't know what to do with that sort of information, considering that I never imagined you to be of the same ilk.' I leaned into him, and rested my forehead against his capable shoulder. 'I'm sorry it took all this for me to come to terms with it, Jeeves. But now I know. It's you or nothing, old thing.'

'Please do not apologise, sir.' Jeeves' arms went round me, and I was able to relax against him, my eyes closing at the blissful warmth he exuded. He stroked a hand up and down my back. 'It is I who must beg forgiveness.'

I clasped my hands to his hips. 'Perhaps we can skip this begging step; I'm quite tired,' I said. 'Do you think we can go home now, Jeeves?'

Home. It would never be home again if Jeeves didn't come back, and for a moment, I was frightened that he would tell me it was quite impossible. But his anger, which had seemed to me limitless, appeared to be defeated by his regard for me. I felt the hard lines of his muscles relax against me, and he let out a small sigh that I could hear growing in his lungs.

Jeeves unfolded from our embrace long enough to plant a gentle kiss on me. 'Yes, sir. Let's go home.'

We put our masks back on for the short trip through the main hall, where inquisitive glances were thrown our way from all corners. A silence fell over the room, and Jeeves drew himself up and addressed those assembled: 'No one here saw or heard anything unusual tonight. Do I make myself clear?'

'Certainlys' and 'of courses' littered the air, and Jeeves slipped his hand in mine and led me onward. I flushed under my mask, so overjoyed was I at the simple gesture of holding Jeeves' hand. We passed through the foyer, where Jeeves collected his extant valise from the coatroom. And then we made our way back to Berkeley Square.

I suppose this is the point in all Byronic tales (is it Byronic? Jeeves would know.) when the adventure draws to a close and the reader can feel safe and secure knowing that the heroes are going to be just hunky-dory. I won't insult your intelligence by telling you that was the case with Jeeves and I, because it wasn't. There were many details to iron out, after all, when master and man become something more. We would eventually need to discuss whether Jeeves should accept his usual payment for his services as a valet, whether I should pitch in to help with the daily chores like a good husband would, and how we would handle the stickier legal ramifications of naming each other as beneficiaries in our wills. Much time would pass before I could tell Jeeves all my darkest secrets, like which of my old school chums had dallied with me in the dormitories; and Jeeves would need time before telling me the details of his own youthful indiscretions and how he resolved to give them up after meeting one B.W. Wooster. We would argue about returning to the Cloak, where I knew Jeeves had developed a large circle of friends that he cared for, though Jeeves declared his disinterest in appearing at that club again. (I won this argument, if you can credit it, and it brought the both of us much pleasure to be seen in semi-public arm-in-capable arm. It also was a load off my mind to discover that Cyril had taken up with Peter, thus saving the rest of London's inverts from the dangers the two of them posed while unattached.)

Yes, there was much to do before Jeeves and I could ride off into the sunset, as my American friends sometimes call it.

But that evening, as exhausted and loveworn as we were, all we could do was fall into my bed together and put all these pressing issues from our minds. Jeeves shoved me out of my suit, and I helped him out of his white tie, and we slipped between the sheets to curl close to each other. I fell asleep almost immediately, draped over Jeeves' chest and drowsy from the sensation of his warm skin against mine.

To my happy surprise, I was awoken in the middle of the night by Jeeves' hands gliding over my flanks and back. Though our brains had been switched off completely, our bodies had seemed to be ready to go, for the both of us were hard and wanting. I attempted to shake off the fuzziness of my sleep while Jeeves silently aligned us under the bedclothes. This experience was so very different from the frenzied lovemaking we'd indulged in while at the Cloak, but I was not one to complain. We traded caresses for what seemed like hours, my mouth tracing the line of Jeeves' broad shoulders, his fingers running along my spine. When we kissed, it was to share our heavy breathing and to swallow the incoherent sounds of passion that welled up in us. We familiarised ourselves with each other in the dark, speaking only in whispers, sharing private words of love.

When dawn finally broke, streaming bright sunlight through a thin gap in the bedroom curtains, I was a twice- or perhaps thrice-satisfied lump of jelly in Jeeves' arms. Suffice to say that the man must have been wracked by the guilt of only receiving pleasure from me during our first interlude at the Cloak, and he sought to make it up to me in several interesting ways. I was still catching my breath when Jeeves reached over to the night table and procured two cigarettes and my lighter. He lit them both and then handed me one from his lips.

I took it gratefully. 'Thank you, Jeeves. Exactly what I needed.'

'My pleasure, sir,' he said with a faint near-smile.

I smoked for a bit before saying, 'Jeeves, do you think you would prefer to drop the "sirs" when we're alone? Like you did when you were playing the part of Victor, I mean.'

'Would you like me to, sir?'

I considered this as I lounged against him. 'I'm not sure. You didn't sound altogether like Jeeves to me when you left them off. But I wonder if it is truly Jeeves that calls me "sir" or if it's some stuffy valet code that can be dispensed with, now that you've done to me something a dashed sight more improper.'

'May I take your meaning to be that, although you appreciate the familiar appellation, sir, you do not wish to burden me with its continued application?'

'That's the ticket. It's up to you, I mean to say.'

Jeeves de-ashed his gasper into the tray on the bedside table and hummed in thought. 'What would I call you,' he asked, 'if I did not call you "sir"?'

'Anything you liked, old thing.' I handed him the end of my finished cig. and he stubbed it out for me. 'Though, well, you know, I've never heard you use my given name. My real one, I mean.'

'Shall I attempt it, sir?' Jeeves asked, and there was that twinkle in his eye. I nodded, and Jeeves finished his gasper before leaning down to kiss me thoroughly. As his lips pulled away from mine, he murmured, 'Bertram.'

I had never heard my name said in such a wonderful way. It made the hairs on my arms stand on end. I wriggled against Jeeves and told him so. 'Again, Jeeves?'

He licked his clever tongue across my sensitive neck and again said it like a mysterious incantation. 'Oh, Bertram.'

'Jeeves,' I gasped in reply. Then I stopped short. 'Erm, Jeeves, shall I call you by your given name as well? When we're alone, that is.'

Jeeves stretched out beside me on his stomach and pillowed his marvellous head on his crossed arms. He peeked up at me through the fringe of his mussed hair, and if I didn't know any better, I would say he looked bashful. 'I do not think my name is as fitting as yours,' he said.

'You darling thing.' I laid a hand on his rueful cheek, delighting in his small discomfort. 'I will try to make it sound as good as you've done for mine.' I leaned in to kiss his ear, which I now knew was his Achilles' heel of a sort, and I whispered directly into the perfect shell of it: 'Reginald.'

It was as if I'd used the right password at the mouth of Ali Baba's cave. Jeeves dug a hand into my hair and drew me into a fierce kiss that lasted for quite some time. His other hand pulled my hips against his, and though I hadn't thought it possible, my body tingled with the beginnings of yet more desire. When we finally broke the kiss to gulp fresh air, he asked me, 'Again, Bertram?'

'Of course,' I said, sliding my arms round him. 'As many times as you like, Reginald.'

 

fin.

> EDIT TO ADD: I shamelessly stole that last image from [](http://jackpy.livejournal.com/profile)[**jackpy**](http://jackpy.livejournal.com/) who drew the most darling...well, you [can see for yourself.](http://jackpy.livejournal.com/22142.html#cutid1)
> 
> EDIT AGAIN TO ADD: some [lovely fanart](http://i42.tinypic.com/125gmev.jpg) by [](http://muuskanuikkunen.livejournal.com/profile)[**muuskanuikkunen**](http://muuskanuikkunen.livejournal.com/).
> 
> And [some more lovely art](http://pics.livejournal.com/h_e_r_b_a_t_a/pic/00005whz) by [](http://h-e-r-b-a-t-a.livejournal.com/profile)[**h_e_r_b_a_t_a**](http://h-e-r-b-a-t-a.livejournal.com/)


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